The Dance

My memory is a Polaroid picture left in the sun.
The scene is discolored and warped,
and I’m left with only an abstract memory
as if I had heard the story second hand.
But in the language of my heart
the events are crystalline.

I scaled the wall of a nervous sheer cliff,
and climbed toward the mountain top revelry.
My fingers gripped the walls with such intensity
that the rocks crumbled in my hands.
Just as I thought I had lost my hold,
and all I wanted to do was hide,
you said yes.

I made my way through the emotional spectrum,
in the time it took us to sway from left to right.
Do you remember when we danced?

5 Responses to “The Dance”
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