Pirouette

She danced

on toes of thread and flutter,

in pirouettes and petal clutter,

turning every pause between

into something soft, serene.

I laughed—

not at her,

not to deter.

My jester heart, all patched and frayed,

hid aching truths in jokes I made—

masking sparks I couldn’t state.

She knew I lacked a dancer’s grace,

but still she moved through open space,

as if her steps, so light, so free,

could draw the rhythm out of me.

And maybe so.

Perhaps that’s why

her shadow twirls behind my eye.

We were

a tale not fully told,

a play too warm, a stage too cold.

She spun in lights with perfect pose,

I cracked my jokes between the prose,

and there, beneath the awkward air,

was something trembling, rare, and fair.

She bowed;

I waved.

The curtain dropped between our lines—

two hearts unsure of borrowed signs.

The curtain fell, the audience gone,

but I still feel her pirouette on.

Still now,

if you hear the hush

after laughter’s final rush,

the quiet after comedy’s cue,

like perform fading from a tutu,

you'll hear her slippers sigh the floor,

my painted grin ache evermore.

We never claimed it had to be—

but darling, what a tragedy.

And still,

if you lean into

the hush that follows laughter true,

you’ll hear the dancer’s ghosted sigh,

the harlequin’s soft lullaby—

a feeling we won’t rise above,

but never had to call it love.