Dancing on Crinkled Paper

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Ten years old, I wrapped my fingers 'round your body

And pressed you against one yellowed page.

I had no audience -- just a heart for a stage.

We drew upon a blank slate the notes of a young mind.

And like a toddler learning to walk, I dragged you clumsily across those predestined lines.

We danced upon that crinkled dance floor

To the rhythm of my heart beating --

And to the chorus of voices who called our moves beautiful.

I played our composition for the ear that would listen --

For the soul that would take pleasure in our literary treasure,

And not laugh at the tongue yet to taste the world or its cares,

 Or trip over unanswered questions, or bend under the accuser’s stare.

With you in my hand, I learned to sing the notes etched deep in my soul,

And eventually let them drip from my tongue and roll.

And when my innocence was attacked, I drew you from my side

And fought for the same beauty that filled my sails with winds to ride.

Some said I was courageous to take you from your sheath and fight.

I thrusted you against the paper as you bled our song from tight clenched fingers.

They said innocence was fleeting, nothing ever lasts,

But through those teenage terrains I held you in my grasp,

Pressing you into the paper when the world pressed me --

And with hope as our compass, we rode those turbulent seas.

This is our song – a dance, a journey filled with our humble traces,

A voice, our mark, a melody to fill the empty spaces.

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