We move with these melodies and sway like the trees.
We scream for each other on balconies above
our own clouded skies, and we don't know
how high we are even when smoke
escapes our breath for hours.
She dances with her heels in her hands
with wine glass shards in the grass that
teases her feet as she watches us.
She doesn't know where she's going in life,
doesn't know who she wants to be with.
She resents the way we dance, the way he spins me,
as her breath smells of gin in the wake
of what she had been.
What trust was seeded so deeply within us
before she decided to turn to the crying children
whose identities are made into sob stories
and whose dying grip of reality somehow
keeps the breath sighing from her lips.
She shows herself to strangers on the floor,
doesn't mind that they won't dance with her anymore.
They put her in line with the other sequin whores
and study all the ways she's not unique.
And yet, she resents our slow rhythm.
We replace her brass quartet with a swooning soundtrack
and we only stop dancing when the man tells us we can't.
She gets hit when she resists,
while I'm graced with angel kisses.
