That night I danced to his heartbeat.
His hands were cold as ice, a saying I had never quite understood until then.
My eyes wandered across his face, looking for reasons why I was so captivated by this boy.
He was a fifth season, darker than winter, but softer than summer.
Ooh, how we danced to our own voices.
He promised me things I had never heard, while I knew we were only dreaming.
With jaded lips he kissed my smiling mouth, and I knew for those few seconds I could give him life.
The moon whispered to us, let’s steal the sun’s rays of light, steal the day and celebrate the night.
Now I move my feet but there’s no dance.
One early morning was all it took to chase him away.
Every spring I look for his voice in the song of birds or the color of his hair in falling autumn leaves.
But my baby, he’s never there. No matter how slow I move to the sound of my grieving soul.
I’ll never dance with him again.