The cold crept in, like dry ice on my own
private stage. The performance of a life time,
to be danced in the dark, with only empty chairs;
frayed and a dull worn out burgundy,
all numbered. Lights off, and just the
beat of a half remembered tune in my mind.
No grace in this face. Just heavy and jilted
movements. No perfect lines in this spine.
I ache when I move, but this is my own version
of a less than eloquent love story, and to me,
It feels more like an effort to breathe.
The numbered empty seats will not mock.
I don’t need nor want applause for my awkward
bended knees, or my outstretched hands, or for
the insecurities I fail to hide in my silly costumes.
All I care for is the freedom to twirl in time
to the one line of an old unnamed song that
haunts my soul if I do not whisper it at least once a day.