Dance it seemed to me was my life.

My love and passion

And my healing.

Dance who touched my soul in the most intimate of ways.

Its brief but beautiful touch.

A small piece of ecstasy that could not be obtained through that of menial things

I could almost consider Dance my soulmate.

 

But would a soulmate so willing leave their own half?

When their bones grow tired and their face shows the beauty of age.

And they are not the young, vibrant, person they once were,

Would a soulmate leave their own half so willingly?

 

A shattered heart

Teardrops of an angel

And drooping wings.

Who am I to say that Dance was my soulmate

When it was dance that was so eager to consume my heart and soul

And burn me down until I was nothing,

but a pile of ash and memories.

 

Who am I to say that I could not find the same love, healing, and passion in something else?

Or perhaps someone else.

There are shattered hearts

Teardrops of an angel

And drooping wings.

 

I am weak, and tired.

Dance, who was once a lover, left me broken and deserted.

Left alone with emotions I could not express without their help.

Weak and tired.

But I am persistant.

 

I found another.