I don’t write poetry-
My heart pumps ink through my veins and it bleeds out of my fingers to fill an empty page.
I met a man once.
When we got to talking he asked me what I did.
I told him I’m a dancer.
“Neat” he said, and then “What do you really do, though? What are you actually going to do with your life?”
If I can’t dance, then I might as well die right now, I said to him earnestly.
I don’t think he believed me, for he only laughed and turned away.
After he left, I began to notice my skin was turning cold, crackling, and threatening to fall apart….. it had been too long since I had moved. Even that short conversation with the unbelieving man was too grand a pause, too much time away from dancing.
So I ran as fast I could and leapt, flew through the air, wind catching hold of my hair… giving myself up to my life’s purpose. I felt the warmth return to my skin, my pores brimming with satisfaction, maintaining seamless balance. It was as though finally I had provided them with the air they needed to breathe.
I think I may have landed sometime after, I’m not sure.
In my heart I’m still flying through the air…
Photo Credit: Alexander Yakolev