In a parallel universe, we would be oil painted muses
immortalized by household tales and sold out shows.
We would enter stage right and exit left.
To often we’d forget that we are just like everyone else,
composed of skin and bones.
Roars of admiration would erupt from sizzling darkness.
We deciphered movements instructed by a foreign language we never spoke.
Some say we had precision. To others, a sharpness.
Instead, we walked away from pink tights and hierarchy since
I had a diploma
and you wore long sleeves in the summertime.
I had a scholarship to an out of stage college
while mixed drinks at parties made you out of tune with your internal rhyme.