It never hindered us for a moment that the music ended long ago. We were always ready to kick up our heels when the moment demanded it, and audible music was not a necessity. You liked it that people would laugh to see us waltzing around a public place; you just smiled and reminded me that I don't care what others think of us either.

I remember teaching you to tango--well, I pretended I knew how, and you pretended to believe me. But everything about you still sparkled on the dance floor; you were my gift to our invisible audience. The way you teased the intangible rose between your teeth and showed off your slender, black dress to them--I felt the graceful strength of the elements flowing in synch with our bodies then.

The dance was everything. It was the source of our passion, and passion, to us, was the manifestation of that everything. I never told you why I let it end; you know that I'd dance forever if they'd let me, but somehow I let you slip through that. And I couldn't tell you any more now then I could back then. All I can say as I reach for your forbidden hand is that I want you to dance with me, now, one last time.

We seek the shadowy places,
dancing in the dark,
pretending it's enough to make us anonymous.

We're suddenly brave
wearing our insubstantial masks.
Pretending you can’t recognize us
and only hearing music when you open your mouth.

Losing ourselves,
running away by standing still.

Are we wearing a mask indeed,
or taking them off instead?

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