Ten.

 

Dancers flash across the creaky black floor, touching in the exact spots

they have practiced to land in. Each one a different person, each touch

to the ground a different stroke of genius.

 

nine.

 

Minutes left to go before the under dog becomes just another finisher in the race, 

slinking past into obscurity. But this time will be different, this race he will prove 

 himself to those around him. His feet are the thunderous cracks in stormclouds

as the time slips further away.

 

eight.

 

Turns left before he wins, finally topping his rival and friend at their zealous card game.

throwing down card after card in a frenzy to get all he has on the board, while eyes peer

at the strange competition taking place near them.

 

Seven.

 

Friends at the table, huddled together in meeting as they pass around ideas.

the sudden striking tone of seriousness bouncing from voice to voice as 

each one voices his hopes to the group in hopes of their realization.

 

six.

 

feet into the ground the coffin sank, carrying the memories of better days,

the heavy wooden weight pressed hard against the shoulders of the young ones

looking on at the somber spectacle.

 

five.

 

Fingers curled together in unison as they sail through the air, striking against the stomach

of the larger man like a key into a lock, and just as quickly the five-fingered fist withdraws 

for another blow.

 

four.

 

degrees outside as the youth stands smiling with his father, barely feeling the biting wind as he

prepares for the long race ahead, father and son son sharing a grin and a hug before the call is given.

 

three.

 

seconds counted before his speech began, and yet when he opened his mouth words flowed as if he was

a fountain, dictating his simple address to the small gathering in front of him. Not a stutter, not a show of fear,

only the swift rush of adrenaline as words spilled forth.

 

two.

 

feet whirling about the hard floor, leaping and tapping, stomping and prancing, limbs alive with vigor

as their upper half danced with an equal fire within, throwing the glances he received to the wind.

 

one. 

 

The last one to remain, the first one to arrive, the truest friend on earth. Friend, critic, ally, rival.

One unique, only one like it on the planet, yet never seen by him. Only glanced at, passed by in glass windows,

observed in bathroom mirrors, regarded doubtfully, confidently, happily, somberly, yet never truly touched.

every day he thanks the friend for being with him, for waking up another day.

 

zero.

 

words left to scribe, thoughts left to put to letter and paper. All the remains,

is the affirmation of the mouse click.