My epiphany came one sunny Saturday in March, in a concrete room just past the stage lights.
one, two, three,
one, two, three,
around the backstage rubble, mad with adrenaline, keeping each other from falling,
disturbing bystanders in a futile search for silence.
"we're going to Hell," I told you as we swayed in the dark,
voices at a whisper,
hands clasped in mock reverence for something we never really believed in anyway.
It's been eleven months. You still do not know how to waltz.
I can't remember when the music first started, but it sounds a little bit sweeter that way.
Best friend,
You are my reminder that loveliness is still alive, good intentions have not died,
and life is too beautiful a thing to sit back and watch with a vacant expression.
I will not watch from the other side of the room,
but live in the middle of the dance floor.
Maybe my grace is only imagined, but you are the best partner
and we are my favorite song.
Very soon, we will both be dancing solo.
We'll vacate the floor for awhile, try to accommodate each other's absence,
make up new steps as we go along.
We will teach each other the moves we have learned, incorporate them into our old routine,
We will flow just as seamlessly.
Our grace is no longer imagined.
This song has no end.
The more you write the more you grow and reach and touch into hearts and minds and souls, mine, yours and others. Keep going.
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