Monday, June 21, 2010

I don't know what dancing is (if I've never danced with you.)

"Come!" You say. "Come dance with me."
I don't know how to dance. I step on toes.
But you say you will teach me. You look so confident.
I take your hand.
You swing me around. We dance. We laugh. We spin.
I like this dancing. Why have I never danced before?
We spin faster.
The world behind you is a blur and now I'm dizzy.
"Slow down," I tell you. "Now all I can see is your face."
You laugh and pull me closer. The rhythm changes.
Now every part of you is touching me and we breathe together.
We step. We sway. And I still can't see a thing.
You lead me.
"We aren't slow dancing." You whisper in my ear.
"We aren't even dancing at all. We never danced."
And now I'm confused.
I don't know what dancing is if I've never danced with you.
The room still spins and I try to pull away.
You pull me back and I fall into you.
We step. We sway. And I still can't see a thing.
Now the rhythm doesn't make sense to my not-dancing feet.
You keep stepping on my toes.
You kiss me.
One final, violent spin, and you let me go.
Dizzy, confused, bruised shoulders and toes.
There you are smiling.
"Wasn't that fun?"
But I wish I had never taken your hand.
I don't know if I'll ever dance again.
I still want to dance and laugh and spin,
but not if it comes to the same end.

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