Dear dancer,
behold
a much-belated birthday gift,
an elegy, apology.
I drove 3000 miles west last week
pursuing every single sunset
the way I once chased after you
and... I'm sorry.

Dear dancer, you are a tree.
How wrong to think your shade was made for me.
Leaves and blooming branches
stretched towards the sky,
floating petals dancing in the
wayward air,
roots deep beneath the grassy earth...
How wrong to think your shade was made for me.

To me
you'll always be the dancer,
ballerina, book lover,
pirouettes and paper cuts
and piano strings.
I'm sure you make them sing like
symphonies.
To me,
you'll always have your place,
framed against sunsets,
nostalgic memories.
To me,
you'll always have that blushing grin.
Sometimes I'll imagine you in coffee shops,
and I still have that mason jar of ocean sand.

Dear dancer,
I'd be remiss if I didn't give you thanks.
You may not know,
but
you saved me from depression.
You saved me from myself.
You showed me what it's like
to smile,
to smile from the heart,
and you taught me freedom once again.  

Here it is,
an elegy, apology,
one last poem for you.
Happy birthday, dear dancer.
Happy birthday.