This is an old story -- a dream I wrote
down, really -- but I figured I'd type it up just so I can
attempt to alleviate my writers' block...
I want to dance with you. So we dance in the empty abandoned
warehouse ballroom of my mind, which has been outfitted with
mirrors on its short walls. Windows line the tall half of
the long wall -- I don't know what's opposite that. The walls
are brick, red brick, and buildings can be seen outside the
windows. The floor is hardwood; the ceiling is high and unfinished.
And you're just looking at me -- you're in your trademark
clothes so dark, but your eyes seem to smile tenderly. I'm
nervous -- there's something about you that excites and frightens
me all at once. And no matter what you say I think you're
There ought to be music playing, but I can't find the right
CD so there isn't any. You mention that you might have some
so I wait -- I sit on the floor and watch as you go to the
sound system. I love the way your hair falls, the way your
jacket sits on your shoulders -- that much I know is there.
You come back almost jogging; you're happy and now most certainly
smiling as best you can, considering.
The music -- it's anything from "Pretty Good Year"
to "I've Had the Time of My Life" but now -- now
it's quickly becoming "Truly Madly Deeply" -- a
Our fingers interlock; your hands are warm and callused and
I know the roughness of your fingers come from hours spent
against guitar strings. Your other hand is at my waist but
it's almost like you're afraid to touch me -- I understand
it's hard for you but don't refrain from reaching my spare
hand up around your neck. This is how to dance, right? My
stray thought nearly embarrasses me and would have caused
me to blush if it had been anyone else but you -- but if it
had, he wouldn't have heard it in the first place. And I don't
even know if you're reading me now -- but I don't care.
We've stopped moving around the room; we've been relegated
to one corner even though we're quite alone. Somehow I'm drawn
closer to you -- somehow my arms are both around your neck
and I can feel the energy pulsating within you, that bright
fire that's replaced a heartbeat. You're warm to the touch,
and dry, and almost solid -- very nearly solid -- it's like
something's just a little off-color with consistency -- but
you smell wonderful.
I wonder what you're thinking. I pull away -- the music's
still going but I don't care -- and there is a question and
a pain in you: a wounded curiosity.
I want to explain so much to you but I'm afraid I don't know
the answers myself.
As my fingers shakily trace the black collar of your leather
jacket, you stand stone still, plaintive and weary -- too
weary for your years. So much has happened to you.
And I know it isn't possible, but at this moment I would
like very much to kiss you.
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