Sitting here wet from the shower, the light of the afternoon is weakening.
I crave something beautiful.
Breathtaking.
Exquisite.
Someone to lift me through the air in a waltz--my feet still on the ground, one twothree one twothree, but floating, all the same.
The music will be filled with strings--violins and cellos. Violas and harps. The piano.
Life.
It has been so very long since I danced in the rain. It has been longer since I was lifted over earth by a partner certain of their steps.
My face blushed, then, as I came closer to the ground--aroused and exposed. An older woman in front of me.
That, she said, is how you waltz.
Yes. Yes. Oh.
And now, on this fading afternoon, I would like to dance with her again.
Or, if I cannot waltz with an exquisite partner, I would like to be taken somewhere warmer than air.
Just somewhere that takes my breath away, please. And let me write it over again when we have finished, for I am craving the beauty of words, just as much as an orchestra of strings.