dancing with a four year old will teach you how to live.
waltzing with a miniature princess standing on my toes I learned the value of going backwards
you count the music in threes
and that’s how many lifetimes I want to spend locked in her pocket-sized embrace
I turn cartwheels in her irises
she carefully catalogues the world there with perfect honesty and I don’t need anything else.
I don’t want to grow up, I want to grow in.
so I keep twirling with her hand full of pinkies in my palm

but after we skip miles in circle after circle my calves start to ache and my motivation starts to drip onto the floor in our footsteps behind us
I slither my fingers out of hers and hope she keeps going without me.
but no one gets left behind
she turns back to  demand incredulously why I left
I mumble about achy knees or her blossoming independence, but her bright eyes lock mine and she calmly articulates,
“but you’re not tired yet”

so I slide my hand back into hers and stoop to the empathetic three foot stature
together we glide in circle after circle, her cheeks rosy as her outlook
the minute hand of a clock usually so unforgiving echoes your pattern, but it doesn’t matter

and when life seems to slide in circle after circle,
leaving me scrambling after the tale
about the homogeny someone said brought happiness
I start to stumble without the guidance of hand who only knows about holding and picking things up.

and when round and round I go, and the days and faces start to blend together
and I start to question if this merry-go-round full of animals only dragging lower is worth it
she isn’t tired yet
and try as I may to convince myself that I’m not either, somewhere along the way I stopped letting caffeinated happiness ooze into my bloodstream

tracing the outline of her fingernails my heart starts to crumble as I see where the fault lines in her own will form.

she might have her heart stomped on, and know what it feels like to have inspiration rip you apart from within
and
she might jump through hoop after hoop to end up only tangled in the net with no one to unravel it and help her down.
worst of all she might confuse cutting herself loose with cutting herself open
and bleed dry waiting for someone to sew her whole again with a smile.
then she might be so awake that it hurts
but I  hope she always remember that awake is synonymous with alive.
and if she wears the knives in her back like a cape and her only superpower left is not yet drowning in her tears
she might want nothing more than to curl up and let her dreams take over,
and then when life paints her that jaded, I’ll implore her to  remember that she’s still not tired yet,
because there’s a four year old out there who only wants to dance with her.