Unspoken: The Anthology

Close Enough

If it were a dance, it'd be a waltz.

It was intentional and graceful to the casual watcher, but its intricacies were lost in the sweeping turns and twists. We were spinning, fast enough to form a tornado and nimble enough to constitute intentionality. But worry flashed in my eyes with every dip. The distance was gaping now, like a chasm that hid secrets on starless nights. Questions plagued the dance—a misstep in an endless sea of meticulous footwork. Anxiety illuminated the stage, multiplying tenfold when I saw you twirl so effortlessly. All I wanted was that confidence. All I wanted was the bold and brazen morale to carry me through. All I wanted was for us to join in the middle. We weren't two dancers performing for an audience; we were the same, two halves of a soul separated by the universe's cruelty, fated to spin boundlessly. Because sure, close was close, but never close enough.