If only I could write how I feel but my tongue’s tied up in a reel of the fine print of a promise to myself, that I’d never need help, that I’d never look back at the life that I left, I look over my right shoulder and I’m left bereft of my senses, the glimmer and glare of a friendship so rare and I wonder if I dare reconsider…
I lay a hand on my pillow and reminisce about that little dance,
that little trance you put me in,
and now my fingers feel arthritic,
tripping over themselves in an arhythmic way they practice hard for the day
when maybe they can once again take center stage in your range of vision,
performing a ballet strictly based on the outline of your body
and a contemporary piece on your contours,
dancing hard that they might be showered in the deafening roar of your silent smiles of approval.
I’ll find my muse in your absence, my solace in your silence, you know they say to cut your losses but I’ll celebrate this minus - as a plus, it’s finally the end of the two of us.