PART OF THE DANCE
To be read obsessively, in a single golden thread, do not breathe, do not blink: it's all part of the dance.
Under the spotlight her porcelain skin and rose petal shoes swayed and waltzed and crumbled with milky white brushstrokes of a skirt fraying on the edges and lips glued shut with burnt raspberry lipstick. Arms reaching to the stars and feet perfectly posed as she spins and leaps and stumbles and crumbles.
You were wonderful, on stage (in my fragmented perception of this grand performance).
But truthfully, it's all part of the dance.
In this dance, you sweep fragile hands across a weeping chest that heaves under the weight of the world and sidestep the discomfort in a carefully choreographed move memorised from age 10.
In this dance, tell me what your bones crave, and I'll tell you of mine.
I crave the northern Queensland storms, rolling over cane fields as we gather on the deck and scramble to gather our toys from the backyard. In the evenings I can't sleep. I wake in sweats at 2am, coughing up fever dreams and teenage heartbreak. It's all part of the dance. I crave the sea and the mountains and the city and me and you and home and truthfully I don't know where that is. I crave the way it feels when your eyes are swollen shut and your mouth is sticky with paper mâché and you've just crossed the Nullarbor. I crave when someone sees you in this state and still thinks you are beautiful.
It's all so awfully romantic.
It's all part of the dance.
I crave that sweet noise of the train taking off that squeals from an e minor into the night and I crave your arms around me and I crave the way my pen spills ink across the page and the way you say my name and the way you say your name. I crave the way it feels to wake up in the middle of the night and roll over to feel the warmth of your back press into mine and I think to myself, I'm home. I crave the way you say don't be sorry and the way your hair is all curly and mauve in the early mornings and I crave someone coming home to see me and we're home again. I crave the feeling when the puzzle pieces fit and jewellery feels like skin and freckles resurface and eyes become bright again and I crave the way my lungs fill with fresh air at dawn and the way a strangers voice intertwines with mine and I crave a glass of red with my tangled headphones on the pavement and I crave the way my hands shake and tremor for a new day and I crave it all, it all, it all.
It's all so awfully romantic.
It's all part of the dance.
I crave the way the sunlight hits my face and the way the crystal clear water takes our breath and splashes around my shoulder blades and your dimples and I crave the broken glass on the driveway and the way your fingers dance on the brass strings under the light of the moon, lunar lady, lunar lady, and I crave the way it smells when it rains and I crave hearing you humming in the kitchen from my spot on the couch and my flesh and bones crave to be held and my flesh and bones crave to be held.
It's all so awfully romantic.
It's all part of the dance.
I crave that cowrie shell from Peregian, foraged on a sleepy morning by the hibiscus lady, and I crave the way my fingers flutter over the black and white keys and I crave the way the ocean rumbles through the wooden floorboards under my bed in the night and I crave the moonstone fish with unseeing eyes and the dusty blue tiles at sunbeau that now sit dormant and forgotten and I crave the sweetness of your posed portrait at the harbour and I crave cold silver on my bare skin and I crave September, and I crave September. I crave radical joy and heartbreak and sorrow and freedom and I crave it all, it all, it all. I crave a slice of homemade carrot cake with icing twice as thick as the cake itself, to be eaten with gappy teeth on the deck, and I crave the lakes and juvenile birthday parties and sleeping in and early mornings and messy fights and late nights and the way the sky looks just before I cry and I crave 1% batteries and hoodies that engulf me and a fresh roll of film and hiking a new summit and jazz music with those sweet saxophone melodies that send you into orbit and the way coffee makes me feel horridly ill and I crave restlessness and bedheads and the idea of a cigarette. I crave dancing naked in the kitchen and running away and I crave my diminished guilt and the way blue and green go together so perfectly.
It's all so awfully romantic.
It's all part of the dance.
LOVE FROM,
ASH