‹ Back

 

It’s like trying to waltz at a rave—
too loud,
too fast,
too real.

Still, I move.

If walls could talk,
they’d whisper of rest.
If statues could walk,
they’d dance, slowly.

All my friends are plants—
reaching,
breaking concrete.

Someone asks,
Do you want to dance,
or talk about dancing?

This is it—
the only dance there is:
half-sure,
half-healing,
still moving.

 

-ET