Last night was the first time in a long time that I danced.
I forgot how it felt to move to that dance.
He would pace back and forth between my fingers
waiting for the music to start
He would sway his hips betwen my hands,
twirl and twist and cross
We use to dance beautifully together
perfectly in time and in rhythem with each other
knowing that only we know of our mistakes
leaving trails of ourselves on the dance floor for others to follow
but the silence in our movements was unending
hands cramping and resisting temptations to let go
I struggled to find time to dance with him
where does a writer find time to write and to live?
Last night I wrote for the first night
in a long time
the ink dried and softened
and I wrote about you, about me.
but not about us.
My pages are void of us.
My pen doesn’t know how to write about love anymore.