Once we danced.

You handed me the headphones as we walked East on one of the teens. It was long, you said, but amazing and worth it. At first I had trouble focusing. There were words, there were cars, and there was the city. But as it built things fell away, and there was the ramp up, and it peaked, and it was incredible. I loved it like you.

Later I asked you for more. You sat with me in a living room and listened to them all, writing down names to satisfy my need to know. None of them had quite the same magic, but they were all special, because you gave them to me.

I admired. I envied. I loved what they were to us and I loved that you never questioned my hunger. I imagined you saw a kindred spirit. I cherished.

We sat in your room, drifting away. You had more and every one was exciting, or maybe sharing them was as good for you as it was for me. I didn't question. I relished.

We bounced together under the lights, among the glitter. We heard the first one start. It was overwhelming and flawless. It was all around us and it moved us. We shared it, reveled in it, were amazed by it. We knew it was unique. We grooved together like we believed it would never happen again, would never be so good, would never be so ours.

Somewhere, later, we lost it. Somewhere we lost us.

But once, once we danced. What else is there?