Maybe it’s the easter egg sugar overload, the excitement of the first sunshine in the city or the Turkish psychedelic music, but last week was one of non-stop dancing. Twirling skirts around hard enough to capture the night in its soft fabric. I tried to but I couldn’t keep myself from doing four things:
Waking up feeling hungover, the painful reminder I’m not nineteen anymore
Being late for work, where most of the dancing happened
Losing my voice, because I yelled it all out (festivals do that to me)
Texting the boy, drunkenly, with a flash of regret and awkward eyes avoiding contact the next day
Ah! Still, I love the impulsive things. What makes my heart beat in my throat, no thoughts of what will follow, just what moves my body more. Musical orgasms of losing yourself in a song’s ecstasy. Next thing you know, you’re booking tickets to Paris because you’re on a guest list. Infatuation gets you high. Your feet stopped touching the ground a long time ago. Riding that wave of no tomorrow, only tonight. Starry skies or city lights?
Birds singing, telling you it’s time to go home.