freestyle

You asked me to perform one of your songs with you.

I was all too eager to agree; I knew

you had such talent with creating tracks,

and I'd always had an affinity for dance.

It didn't matter that it lacked vocals.

All I cared about was how it was me

you'd chosen to create the choreography.

It was difficult to do, to say the least.

We sometimes had a hard time following the beat

and I knew that it was my fault, because the routine was mine,

but I kept asking you for second tries.

Most of the steps were ones we took together,

but you'd occasionally freestyle and wander.

I'd take care of it, though, and step back into your gravity,

and of course, you'd apologize and insist you weren't trying to leave.

But one time when the bass was especially loud,

you asked if bringing in another dance partner was allowed.

About three minutes in a minor chord played and I

tried to get you to look me in the eye.

You'd altered the track since the last we'd practiced,

and I wanted to know what possibly could've caused this.

Then you freestyled and turned away

and I thought, "no, it can't end this way."

You'd never before turned your back to me.

You'd stepped to the side, and

twirled, maybe,

but you always ended facing me.

I knew there wasn't much left on the track

and I kept trying to think of what it was I lacked,

what kind of fatal flaw I possessed

to make you ignore the routine I worked so hard to set.

I tried to follow you when you left, I did.

But forcing myself to stop dancing made me feel sick.

So I danced with no partner, danced with no song.

I danced even after you told me, "so long."

Months later, I still dance, though

my feet are worn and bruised.

I keep thinking I should stop,

because I barely remember the tune.

I've lost count of the tears that have dropped,

and I don't think you shed even two,

but I just think, "I can't stop now, no—

it's too soon."