Waltz of Four Left Feet

And yet everything feels unfamiliar. As they step into the hollow room they feel obliged to fill in,
she reminds herself that she isn’t alone. In waltz, she’s not alone.

There’s a lot in life she hasn’t figured out, but the moment his hands held hers, the notion of
hitting plateau didn’t seem quite scary. She’s read hundreds of poems that say love lets you dive in oceans
you didn’t know the depth of, but she found that in love, she soars.

He holds her waist and anchors her hand, guiding her; he holds it with so much delicacy, as if he
fears she would crumble — in fear that he would break her. She placed her empty hand on his shoulder
and let their pulses synchronize with the beat of the music.

As someone said, dancing is poetry in motion. The universe is a dance, as is the planets and the
stars. The orbits and revolution are nothing more than a waltz in the skies.

Right foot back. Left foot sidewards. She closes her right foot to her left with so much serenity
until their feet were nearly touching. She moves her left foot forward and winces when she accidentally
stepped on his toes.

He laughs, finding amusement in the prospect that after all these years, she still didn’t know how
to dance. “Stay,” he whispers, and so she got her roots buried deep into the earth, every layer of concrete
reduced to dust.

The second time his hand enveloped her waist, she is reminded what love is; a feeling that engulfs
and catapults you into the center of the universe until everything sets into place. Into life. Into you.

He moves his left foot towards her in a smooth motion, sliding across the wooden floor with ease.
She retreats her right foot backward, closing it with her left foot. His fingers held her waist tighter,
looking deep into her eyes. Their feet danced like a fox on the hunt. He laughs yet again, bemused. He
pushed her as if she was too wonderful to be near, and yet he reels her back in.

Perhaps this is love.