The Dance


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My heart
is a dance floor,
weathered and worn
by thousands
of dancers’ flitting feet.
Each love makes a mark
whether you want it or not,
and I am dented
and dinged
and damaged
by the waltz
of wayward love
and the longing
of love lost.
The heels
of stilettoed feet
dig gashes
into my chest
with each word
you do not say.
I have felt the lightness
of gliding across
the ballroom floor of love,
the soft skimming
of silk on marble tiles
of divinity,
yet all I feel
are the cracks
and crags
ground into the glass
beneath my toes.
Love is a dance
without a lead,
a ball without a band,
a song without words.
We free fall
through ecstasy
and misery
and attempt
to defy the gravity
forcing us back to earth.
Love leaves us
with watery memories
of what we thought
was nirvana
but we exit
with people-sized holes
in our hearts
and searching for
the next turn
around the damaged dance floor
of love.


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