Dance by Andrea Duerme

“You gotta dance.
As long as the music plays . . . Don’t even ask why.”
– Haruki Murakami

Shall we, then?

As we stumble with our strides,
suns have raced past
and exploded,
singeing our eyes.

Our rhythms are
long overdue.
The tempo of seasons
persists,
urges us on,
and we can only
swallow our farewells,
pray for reprieve.

Dance, my love. Away from here.
So shall I
one day,
my steps moving to my hums
of what would have been
the opus of my time.
Kicking off our soiled shoes

let us both
claim our opposite stages
that wait to burn
with trails of
days yet to burst open,
words yet to be bled,

exhaled.

We will only have ourselves
to blame for all of this
someday,

as we finally stop
at our own
vanishing points,
where with a final pirrouette
we will shatter into
shards of light
that will slice the skies
to make room for our
separate mornings.

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