who had his way
then disappeared.
Such familiar notes. The memory excites.
Until I ache.
I am trapped in a horror movie where they have taken the music away so that
when the demon killer strikes, I am unprepared.
Alone. A victim.
Suspended
in evil silence.
Vulnerable, ungrounded by my treble clef. My bass. My middle C.
I survive.
To lie in bed this very night, listening to that song again and
imagining scenarios with people from my past
who knew me when I couldn’t even dance.
Who knew me when I hadn’t even started becoming who I wanted to be.
As if I was (even) supposed to know.
My dance teacher says
that if the leader makes the follower look good,
they have done their job.
In real life, by day, I find most leaders to be
in it for themselves.
But in my dream dance, I am all there is. I amaze myself
with my gracefulness and fancy footwork.
I am the light
the sprite
the caterpillar turned moth.
(You thought I was going to write butterfly, didn’t you!
Don’t look away and try and hide.
I know you did.
But it’s the moth that makes my metaphor sing today
and always.
The way it appears to your naked uninformed eye as a dull grey cloying thing.
A prisoner of light.
Look more closely though and it is iridescent.
A thousand delicate shades of grey.)
My moth is my untold story. Hidden
to everyone but myself.
Especially at night.
This music I am hearing now
It is our song.
