“And I think of your letters as love letters …”
If only. How much text constitutes a letter I wonder? How far would I have to stretch to delude myself into believing that you wrote to me at all, much less of love?
“I think I’ll even wonder if you meant it at the time”
Constantly. Well, maybe that’s not so true. Only when I give myself room to doubt. Most of the time I’m secure in the knowledge that you didn’t. It’s easier that way. Safer.
“As long as she can say, this dance is mine”
The beauty of the solitary existence —> it’s always mine. Even when it’s yours, or theirs, or hers … it’s always mine. It’s tiring though. Dancing this marathon on my own, knowing I can’t take a break or the judges will tap me out, knowing there isn’t anyone to take up the slack if I falter, appreciating that at least there are people to bring me water and a smile.