Remember that night, so bright, enveloped in the most fragile of shells, waiting to be birthed every moment of every day. We danced in the old barn, slow in method, under the glowing crystals clinging to the skeleton like ivy grows on aged foundations. Crystals that illuminated us almost as poignantly as the eyes that followed our every move, our every spark generated from soul kinetics. Our feet did not touch the cold concrete, gliding like a destined pendulum, swinging wildly under control. Bodies clung, soft like magnets, in unison, as one, in the eye of a hurricane that would eventually blow us apart once we exploded through the walls, back into the storm. It was sweet to feel the breeze as the beads of sweat collected, so nice to live the wind knowing we were not the source. So easy to let it take us, for we were alone, weightless and fragile. We did not have our song, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. We were orchestrating our own symphony, and everyone could hear it on that night of someone else’s dream. Ours would would break under the strain of the past, because sometimes love is not enough. I still remember the sharp heaviness in my chest. The music has since gone silent, the staled air no longer carries a tune, but now and then I still catch myself dancing to that masterpiece we created so long ago. I wonder if anyone else does, too.

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