Words type-written onto strings of cream white ribbon float 

through the dance studio of my mind, where the walls are lined 

with mirrors, and the floors are a light-brown faded 

wood stain, and the window high up on the ceiling 

breathes in the outside light, like sunshine through a cloud.

But I am no dancer to hold onto the spotlight of the morning.

Who would I be if I took hold of just a single word-covered ribbon? 

Would I twirl it in figure eights around me and sway to the rhythm of my very own heart beat?

Or would I read it and let it fall through my fingertips and onto the floor?

It’s the choosing that holds my bare feet flat on the ground of this grayed out headspace. 

It’s the cloud swallowing the room, turning it into nightfall far too soon that’s keeping those feet from inching in any direction in a world where anyone else would just dance. 

It’s the ache in my shoulders holding my whole body in one place in a space I dreamed up, where I’m free to move in any shape or form I’ve ever imagined.  

It’s me staring at all those words floating by on strings of cream white ribbon, ribbon made for twirling, in a room built for dancing, in a world where everything in it is moving. 

It’s me standing completely still.