We were dancing our twisted tango again, side-stepping around questions I still wanted to ask, dipping down to a depressive state before you tried to pull me back up, and twirling in the ever-lingering confusion of why I kept talking to you. You were trying to hold a bandage to your own inflicted gunshot wound in my chest, a paradox that left me hurt, but slightly less lonely. I kept firing at you, a childish banter I allowed myself to play into for the moment. Anger spiraled around my hips and I felt like bumping into you during the chorus. You maneuvered yourself well enough to stay just out of reach, and my wound would fester once more, causing me to have to stop and sit down.
Each new day the music would be turned on once more and you'd hold your hand out. I'd stare at the outstretched palm and wonder how many playlists you'd last before deciding that you've had enough.
