Stories and Starlight

I tried to write about love, but   everything I want to express has already been written. (a shelf weighed down by vinyl records, decades of lyricisms for love and heartbreak.) I forced myself to write about love, but  I can't remember what I saw in you the first time -- I don't even know if I want you anymore.  (a case file with faded photographs, all proof too dated and aged for the detective.) I started to write about love, but  it strained my thoughts and muddled my feelings too much to try. (a never-ending book, an unsolvable puzzle, pages and pieces scattered over the floor.) I wanted to write about love -- about you --  but (a smudged page, gray marks from words I tried to take back.)   at least I know I tried.

It was silent storytelling: words and noise traded for music and movement among the soft swishing of skirts, tapping of feet and a solid scuff-marked stage underneath. All tethers of reality, identity thrown off no names, but feelings and faces half in a dream no worries, but wild forgetting within practiced routine no time, but the infinite now --  spotlighted: fragile and strong, safe and free. **** author's note(s):  As a child (wow, it feels really strange to say that), I was a ballet dancer for six years: I started when I was three and stopped at age nine.  This was originally written in 2020