The Dance

[KaylaJoy]

I feel the whisper of my name in my ear, and it stays on my mind all day. I still feel the pressure, the gentle push as he leans into me. I feel the heat of his arm against mine, the brush of his hand. My mind goes back to the sear of his kiss against my lips, waiting, breathlessly as he suspends his face above mine, waiting for me to meet his lips in mid air. I remember the taste of his kiss, the musky scent he bore, both clean and earthy. I trace his arm, his back, his face, as if to remember every contour, every dimple, every hair. And I do remember. I hear his laughter, teasing, egging me on as I dive in for yet another kiss; he knows I've surrendered, he knows I am his, and this brings him joy, this brings him confidence, this brings him laughter.

I sit in the curve of his arm, certain there is no other curve for which I am made. I lean against his chest certain that the molding of my body into his is complete. I feel at rest, even sedated. He is my drug, my high, my happiest place. As his fingers intertwine with mine, we match the lengths, finger for finger. He caresses my hands, my finger tips, my arms, my neck and my face before cupping my chin with his hand and tilting my face towards his, to receive the promise of his lips on mine. The kisses deepen, and then they are light. He kisses my forehead as I lean against him, and I sigh, wrapping my arms around his chest. This is where I belong, I think. This is the spot I was made for. Night after night, day after day, this elegant dance was played. Then one day it played no more. The music has changed for him now. The tune is different. He does not think of me in those gentle whispers of thoughts anymore. He does not miss my touch. He does not long for my taste upon his lips. We dance to the beat of a different drum now.

Still I have not forgotten his music. I have not forgotten the dance. Tonight we touched, and I felt the lightning move upon my skin. I felt the inevitable magic begin once more and he leans into me, heating my skin with his skin. Will we dance again? It must be different, I say to myself. The dance must be a new dance for this heart to try again. Yet even as I speak my thoughts with pen and paper, I know that for me the dance has already begun. He need not be present to dance in my thoughts. He need not respond to live in my dreams. I need only to remember the ballet of love, of romance, of fiery kisses and melting touches that I shared with him to be back in the dance once more. Shall I dance alone?