Waltz 
by Olivia Montieth 
Rated PG 

Answer to self challenge:  choose a piece of music that inspires you, and write about it. 

***** 

The music floats all around, as we spin and twirl madly about. The pulsing rhythm's, the low mournful cry of violins, and the warmth of your body, pressed firmly against me bring forth imagery both erotic, and graceful.  
   
You move in circles, your smile showing that you are reflecting inwardly, concentrating on your next next step, anticipating my next 
move.  When your eyes flit up to mine, and then look away shyly, I feel a flutter in my chest as my heart forgets to beat, and then remembers once again in a panic to keep time with the music. 
   
Your body moves like fluid, your feet hardly touch the ground, and the effect seems contagious. Gradually I feel as if I am being lifted, and the rigors of life fall away, there is nothing but the two of us, and the cacophony of music that seems to be fading as well. There are no horrors, no past deeds or misdeeds, no end and no beginning, only us. No harsh words, nor disapproval of others, no self recriminations, and no death. Only life and love, and the melody. 
   
The same as there could be no words of any language that could do justice to this perfect mixture of tones, sounds, notes and tempo, so there are no phrases or ways to say how I feel about you. The closest approximation would be that within you, there lies perfection.  An impossible balance of physical beauty, mental abilities, and emotional rightness that compliment me in every way. You make up for my shortcomings, accommodate my moral instability and hold up my spirit, even as we are flying about the room. 
   
The pace is building, leading to a climactic end. I am not ready for it, this ascent back to the ugly world. The cold and colorless 
existence that I lead, with only these brief moments to remind me to live, to breathe, eat, sleep, and go on. Still, I must admit, this is my favorite part of the song.  When the speed becomes so frantic, the motions so complex, that we forget the facade. Raw emotion shows on your  face, your breathing quickens, your skin flushes, and your lips fall open slightly. Our eyes lock, and we forget to look away. Our motions combine, blending to become one being, one body. There is no conscious thought, only base instinct and the knowledge that where one of us the other is moving, the other is already reacting, countering one step with another. By this point, we are touching at every possible point along our bodies, and it is just right. The friction of your thigh rubbing me, the feel of your hands clutching my back and shoulder, and your heart pounding against mine all seem as if we were born this way, meant to be a single entity, but some freakish act of cruelty separated us, and I was brought to existence long before you. We are two halves. I the half that will never be warm without you, the side that has seen too much without you optimism that makes tragedy philosophy, the image without the color, the music without the instrument. I am nothing, I always have been and always will be, unless you fill in the empty places. It would seem that I will be forever destined to look for myself outside of my own existence, seek approval from those who will never approve, and love from those who can't or won't love me back. I have loved three things in my miserable life. My father, my home and you. My father died, denying me till nearly his last breath. My home is a lifeless hulk of rock and dust, being eaten alive from the inside, and which will never love me as I have loved it. And you, why would you love me? I am entertainment to you.  Like this haunting, almost living collection of sounds, beauty and balance, I can be put aside, and brought back out when you are bored or seeking a diversion. 
   
Ah, the last, slow strains of the song are dying, and we are coming back from our wonderland. As the last hum fades away, you look at me, and I can see that you, too, are sorry for the end. It's there, in you eyes, those amber pools that I could gladly delve into and drown. You want to keep going, whether for the physical rush you get from the motion, or because of the of the belief that perfection can be achieved, however briefly. 
   
Merciful deities, this is not the end. I watch in heartsick relief as your lips begin to move, and you ask me breathlessly, "Again?" I barely contain my emotions, and say as calmly as I can manage, "Of course, dear doctor. I must say, I could become addicted to Terran music, and this waltz especially." 

END

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