Last night I buried the dance floor we used to share (and then planted flowers and other cool shit on top)
At some point dancing became less about moving and more about looking
About the moments I’d steal away from it to ground myself between the drugs and the lights and the bodies and what felt more and more like the waning line between fun and chaos,
and, later, the line between chaos and something darker. Something with all the frenzy but less of the joy, or even the potential for joy. More time in the shadows, less in the light.
But yesterday I found my shovel and my gardening gloves and with each piece of falling earth, the rhythm came back to me. The one I fell in love with even before I fell in love with you –– where I neither look down at my body nor scan the dark corners of the dance floor. The rhythm that’s beauty lies in the fact that we’re all hearing it together, exploring its crevices and dips and peaks all as one.
I cry while I plant spring flowers because I know you love that part, too. Maybe one day you’ll remember that and make your own garden. My tears mix with dirt and bright tulips open their arms to the world. Soon I’ll hang lights and posters and find a place to put a cooler with sparkling wine . The dirt is soft and even, you can dance with no shoes.
My garden fills with delighted strangers ready to be not just seen but felt and to celebrate another day of life. This is not a burial, but a revival.
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
dededos
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
