Here we go again. The dance.
You take my hand and I let you take the lead. We move our feet to a familiar beat and I find myself slowly slipping. You do your signature, the strut that’s so fascinating, and I’m reeling myself to get it together.
No, not again.
You twirl me and twirl me and transition to samba, but my tired feet longs only for the waltz. You twirl me and twirl me, but I am out of breath and I start to slow down. Still you twirl me again and again. But as momentum builds up, you let me go and I fall flat on the floor. Again. Like how it always ends.
As I struggle to pick myself up and stand again, I find you no longer there. You have no use for me any longer so you move on to find another partner. Alone with a hollow chest and shaking knees, I again am left with nothing but the memory of the dance I know so well.
