Life is partly what we make it, and partly what is made by the friends whom we choose
|my heart’s music sends me
whirling around this friend
passing that stranger
now grasping a hand for a long beat of music
now avoiding another touch
for every contact stains my costume
and I am spattered
crimson and dripping
with shades of . . .expectation
how many unheeded marks I have left on others
ignoring their dance
for my own intricate choreography
sometimes I think
the most valuable touches
were left by those
who didn’t even notice
and I think . . .
the reverse must also be true . . .right?
is my dance my own
or have I been guided always
by shadow partners
who entwine my desires with
you should really . . .if I were you
even a quick spin of
let’s be practical
but even as I question
I remember steady hands
throwing me into the air with
there are no limits to who you can be
in a moment the beat will sound
and I must leap again
but I have forgotten my choreography
what foot leads . . .how high . . .
where will I land . . .
who will catch me if I fall . . .if I fail?
I will not
the music will be ready
and I will rise and dance . . .again
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