They call me a dancer, but
by iamerica
For years
I have gasped in
Music
replacing myself
with it,
finding its expression
better than any attempts at my own
And there is peace,
however brief.
They call me a dancer,
but I have lost something
in these years.
something hard and sacred,
and in losing it
I have grappled to find it
not knowing
that it is gone forever
with the song that carried it away.
You are there with it,
within the song.
So when I dance I can be with you;
and when you text me
from out of the goddam blue
it is slightly shocking and
it is from far away-
(farther than the song, anyway.)
That i can hardly read your name
that I can barely make out the words
of your bluish text
because both are from another planet,
and the experience is as vague as
how I choose to remember you.
And how can I answer your call?
Luckily, dancing requires no words.
Discipline and self-reservation
are not my strong suits;
I'm a passionate person (as you well know)
but in remembering you
I have mastered both.
I don't indulge in your memory anymore.
your kisses are gone with my size 2;
I don't even remember what that feels like.
And our conversations
which I once memorized like lyrics
now murmur distantly,
hum like a deep rhythm.
And though it rests within me,
forever it will sleep.
because I have buried the rhythm
like I have buried your name.
I can hear it,
I can even sway my hips to it,
but I will not call back,
and I will never invite you to dance again.
You are gone.
This song and my dance are all that remains.