Dancing In The Light

On the bookshelf is a jar full of the good things that happened. On the wooden table, dust and a packet of smokes, one cigarette dying in the ashtray. On the floor a sea of bright yellow light, and I stand in the middle casting a shadow. My shadow does not mean to hurt. On the couch, a crumpled blanket and a flattened pillow. The TV, a dancing fuzz of pixelated people. Your phone on the coffee table buzzing quietly, the only thing in here that is alive, phone call after phone call and text after text asking where you’ve been and where are you now. And I want to embrace the last place you’ve been. On the ground beside the couch is a book peacefully closed, a dog-eared page and a sentence that says, “It is not easy to be still in the presence of the one who makes you sway.”
Canned laughter from the TV turns into white noise and I sit down and hug my legs close. Bathing in the light, waiting for the night. Hunger turns to emptiness turns to bruises turns to nothing. And then a breeze floats through the open window; dust and ashes sweep off the table and tumble through the air; kisses my neck, and I know you are here. “Dance,” a voice says, “dance”, and I almost touch your shape. But no, now is not a time for dancing. The light fades soon after. I pick up a cigarette and light one up, bring it close to me and watch the smoke tremble weakly, remembering the way you tasted. And then the door opens and you push your way in. Gracefully and with purpose, as if you’ve always been here, never disappeared to Neverland or Narnia or some other ethereal place I didn’t have the words or the courage to write you. Look around and see the broken china, smashed picture frames on the floor, and me in the middle, watching smoke. You float to me and pull me up, and we dance barefoot on broken glass. In the morning we will write and write, making up stories about pharaohs and Ra, the sun god, on papyrus paper. We will watch him ride his chariot across the sky, dragging along a ball of fire. Cut onions and learn to cry. One page, two page, three page, stop. I want to cry and laugh and swallow you whole. Protect you from the bad things and make you see only the good. But time, oh time has a way of catching up. In the violent light you turn to ashes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rust and stardust, we’ll learn to dance at last, at last. And soon you will be gone and the house will breathe a sigh, inhaling my scent and exhaling yours. The windows will creak open on their own, the sun will set day after day, and we will dance every time, going crazy in the light.

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