I walk around the busy streets of London. The damp smell of old bricks, the rusty touch of iron gates and moldy memories of years gone. I feel at home. Like a dancer on the floor I swirl around, head held high and I can’t help but notice stares and gazes at me. I remember how I used to love dancing.
High tones, low notes.
High heels, low dresses.
Sounds of tango and the noise of dancing shoes. Sweaty bodies, fiery eyes and dizzy heads after a while. The power of music (just like the touch of those hands on my back) used to dig deep under my skin and leave me breathless on the floor. Horizontal.
I miss all this.
The passion to dance.
The passion to kiss.
The passion to make spontaneous decisions.
– Chatty Owl has left the building –