In a perfect world we'd be running through the streets of Paris, pointe shoes in hand with their ribbons trailing behind us as we sprint to reach the Palais Garnier. The air is cold, but the warmth from your hands is enough for me to ignore the cloud of smoke forming from my mouth every time I open it to laugh at the situation we managed to get ourselves in. My lips and cheeks are tinted with red, and yours with pink. You can't help but wonder why i adore freezing temperatures because you can clearly see how my body shivers when the breeze picks up, you can hear the faint sound of my teeth chattering as i smile at you, and you can feel my fingertips cold as ice against yours, but I don't seem bothered in the slightest.
"Not when the sun is right in front of me."
It's dawn, the sky is a pale blue mixed in with shades and tints of pink and peach blending into the yellows and bright orange that peer over the horizon. The sun isn't scheduled to rise until later, but our classes are set to start in a few minutes. You know i'm in track and field, and i can outrun you anytime i want, but i don't, i wait for you and patiently jog by your side. It's weird how we're both never late to classes, like a universal law, we're either early or right on time. Still, we both know better than to tempt fate.
As you hand me my sheet music and I hand you your pointe shoes, you hold onto me for support as you slip on your shoes. I know injuries are common in your sport, but seeing those bandages and band aids on you, it just feels wrong, it hurts to know that this is what you endure every day. Ironic considering you feel the same way about my hands and wrists. It's not my fault the papers are always crisp, how grueling warm ups can be, and how i lose myself to every practice session. And I know we both agree on those last two things.
Still we laugh it off together as we add another band aid to each other's wounds. Oh how I wish I could be in the same classes as you, just as we were before, to spend recess with you for one more time. I wish i had visited you more often when you were just a street away. Wished we could've walked home together, i should've just ditched the shitty bus.
We make a good team, at least that's what i think, i just hope you think the same. When you dance on stage, it's magic, and when i'm on the piano, you tell me it's beautiful. i don't think we'd put on a great show, i know we will we're both just that good. i play for myself and myself only, but if you need it for practice, you and you alone are the exception.
We probably won't stop until you perfect your routine and i perfect my technique. i'll tell you to rest your legs, and you'll tell me to rest my hands, but we won't listen to each other. Eventually i'll be able to memorize your choreo and visualize it while I play, and you'll prefer my playing over the instrumental versions you've downloaded on your phone. When the day of our performance comes, we'll leave everyone breathless at the theatre and the sounds of applause will haunt our dreams for a while.
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