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 –
CHATTYOWL 
I love this post…if only to walk that corridor with you 🙂
Would you?
Yes. Without question
Ufff.
A dancing spirit never fades…
No mater what, as long as you memory moves to the sound of those tones, your body will graciously sing the song that lays beneath.
That’s the sound of your heart…
So beautifully said, thanks. Makes me feel rather guilty to feel happy.