The Last Dance.

Silent tears,
Stifled muffles.

Eternal longings.
Insomnia.

Purple pouches under the eyes.
Sore voice.

And once again, the heart beats.
And once again, within itself, it keeps.

Not love, at least not the romance.
It's the companionship, the platonic love, the last dance.

Caring words, or no words at all.
Just a feeling, a connection beyond earthy materials.

Wavelengths converging.
Reciting poetry in the late afternoon sun by the porch.

Warm mugs of black coffee.
Looking at the setting sun.

Arguing over the new moon and full moon.
Modifying rhyming lines.

Holding hands in the moonlight in the midst of long grasses.
Looking out together at that lone torch of light flickering in the distance.

Those are the dreams. Words are romance.
It's the companionship, the platonic love, the last dance.