Dancing, En Pointe
I take form in the large room, floating from the strings and wood of the instruments.
I look down at myself. What am I today? I wonder. I take many forms, usually a different one every time I appear.
Today, I appear in a white dress with a strong bodice, and a tulle skirt that puffs out and reaches my knees. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. Bright red hair, pulled back in a bun, decorated with a simple white ribbon. My legs are covered by white tights, and small, light pink pointe shoes hug my feet.
I smile. Classical, I suppose.
Before I know what's happening, I am dancing. Pirouettes, pique turns, arabesques. Twirling through the room en pointe, weaving through the crowds. White beams of light follow me, weaving around people, gripping them tight. Filling their heads with the notes, the beat, and the dance.
The song ends, and a cheer erupts through the room. I take a bow, though no one can see me.
The string quartet begins playing again, and I find myself rising up en pointe again, ready to dance once more.
You and Me
Dance with me.
You are the one that
knows my swaying steps,
that some days my waltzing feet
drag themselves across the floor;
yet still you will be there
matching my pace,
sharing my pain.
The rhythm my heart beats to
is the one you taught me
for when I can't lift my toes
let alone the weight on my shoulders.
So take my hand
and dance with me
because your familiarity,
your unfailing friendship
is what I've always needed.