Tango for Ransom

Get your own ransom note here.

Surrogacy Update

So, I'm off the birth control pills, lowered the dosage of lupron to 5 units, and added estrogen. I do injections of lupron nightly, and injections of estrogen on Thursdays and Mondays.

Only 23 days until transfer.

My Feet Hurt

Usually, my feet don't hurt. But last night I wore my cute new shoes (see them here, but mind the toes) and they have a bit of a platform to them. Not much, more like extra cushioning. It made it a little harder for me to really feel the floor, and I think I was heavier on my feet than normal. The heel is also a little higher then what I normally wear, so maybe that added to it. But today, the ball of my foot has the beginnings of a blister, but will probably turn into a callus instead, and is t e n d e r.

But I danced today anyway.

*sigh*

Woe is me...or my poor feetses.

Saturday Milonga

I enjoyed every single tanda tonight.

I want to just freeze this moment and stay here for a while.

WallFlower Wednesday

MiloMingo calls this one, The Heat Within

Naughty Misbehaving Toes

Thank you, AlyTheRed, friend, photographer and designer extraordinaire.

Make me feel better

There are lots more out there, but I'm supposed to be working and those three were the ones that immediately jumped to mind. Well, and of course Johanna's entire blog. (shhhh...don't tell her I am like, totally in love. I don't think she's figured it out yet.)

Today is crappy yucky doodoo again. I think today I will blame it on hormones, and just keep seeking the things that give me a little glimmer, a little reminder of light. *sigh* (We better damn well get a baby this time, because this hormone crap gets old. )( But S, if you are reading this, it's totally worth it. Really, these are the hormones talking. And they go away. Don't feel bad.)

TangoBaby's Curly Girl

Here, this one too.

Elizabeth's Car Tango

Read this one too.

More than Tango, It's About You

Go read this post again. It's guaranteed to make a crappy day better. At least, that's what I'm hoping.


And if you haven't read it yet (anyone out there read my blog that isn't a tangophile? You should read this post to. It's beautiful and soulful and one of the reasons we all dance.), GO READ IT.

Beautiful Feet

Is it possible to be a dancer and still have beautiful feet?

I used to have beautiful feet. And now? They aren't so beautiful. Or maybe they are just beautiful in a different way.

Today, I have toenails that are a mess (How do I keep doing that to my toenails? Why don't I notice it when it's happening?), a blister peeling off, calluses that I don't seem to be able to rub off no matter how pumicey my pumice stone is, a giant bruise where some mislead young thing stuck her sharp sharp heel into the top of my foot, a nasty scratch across the top of the same foot from MY heel, a fading tan that doesn't match my heels...

Maybe I need to redefine beautiful feet.

Judgment

This week I am dealing with what I see as judgment from someone I love immensely.

This is supposition on my part, but something happened that left my friend feeling used, disrespected, unheard and maybe a whole bunch of other things. And I feel judged, unheard, disrespected and angry.

I'm not really looking for feedback or comment on the situation with my friend, but I wanted to write a bit about my role as a mother, about peoples' judgments of me, and about where I am with that stuff.

I'm not the best mom in the whole world. I'm not even close. And I've been a single parent for enough years now that I can't even remember what it was like to share parenting. I had my kids young, and so most of my adult life has been as a parent. I've done a lot of my growing up right along with my kids (bless their patient little hearts.)

I was married to an abusive mentally ill man. It started to get really bad before I was even pregnant with my second, but I loved him and wanted him to have the love and support, and knew we would/could work through it together. And we tried. But the pregnancy with my second child was traumatic. My husband was beyond my help and really struggling and it was ugly. And so while my son gestated, my house was full of yelling, anger, threats, fear, and intensity. I feared for my life at times. 9 months after our second son was born, friends refused to let me go home to him, or to take my children home to him. It was a full scale, we-don't-think-you'll-live-through-the-night-if-you-go-home Intervention. And so I didn't go home, and my marriage ended.

But let me assure you, the guilt did not. Neither did the abuse, not for a long time after. But the guilt. My younger son was so angry. His first several years, it was his defining characteristic. Did I make him that way, exposing him to all that stress in utero? Did I not protect him enough? Did his father's illness warp his precious baby years? My older son witnessed those ugly scenes. Did he learn that was the way to treat women? Did he feel like he had to protect me? Is his withdrawn serious nature because of all the scary things he witnessed? Are my children ok? Will they despise me for being so weak that I exposed them to the abuse?
And I Let It All Happen.

My oldest rebounded (at least outwardly) pretty quickly. My youngest though, Stupendous Child; It was hard. We went through years of counseling. Me learning parenting skills and how to manage his needs. We went through batteries of tests, looking for a diagnosis. None fit. Person after person looked at me and told me something was wrong with my child, except my counselor. Who told me he was incredibly smart and just bigger than his body. She taught me to keep up with him, to take care of myself, to not take his stuff as my own and to be ok with who he is, even when everyone around me was convinced that there was something wrong. But she couldn't erase the guilt.

Pre-school and kindergarten were hard. Really hard. Cry myself to sleep every night, falling asleep mid-sob from exhaustion hard. Bruises from having to restrain him so he wouldn't hurt himself or others. 1st grade was a little easier. He was beginning to be enough in his body to be able to actually choose. Not always, and not perfectly, but there were glimmerings. Last year was second grade. I think I actually only had to pick him up from school for behaviour stuff less than a handful of times. He's grown and matured so much, and has really learned how to respond the way he wants, not just to respond from panic. He's still a handful, but he feels good about himself now. It's a major achievement.

[Guilt, fear, never enough, more to do, dirty house, haven't shopped in a couple days, forgot to send in the homework, never enough money, have to ask for help, dishes in the sink, screaming child, just want a break, gotta go to work, another babysitter, how did you get that cut (why don't I know he has a cut? what kind of mother doesn't know her kids gets a cut?), overdue bills, never enough, here watch this movie so I can collapse, here--these smell ok, never enough, never enough, never enough.]

And here I am. I am a single mom of 4; 2 bio and 2 foster. I LOVE being a parent. I love that I make mistakes, I love that I get exasperated, I love that my kids have their own timeframes and personalities and wants and quirks. I do a wonderful job. I have a gift with listening and making space for the kids to feel heard. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed and exhausted and have too much on my plate. My house is never clean. I have 300 projects going on. Each kid could use a little more one-on-one time. I would like to be able to teach them more. But you know what?, I love them completely, for just exactly who they are, and they know it.

And yet, I still judge. I am my own hardest critic. I make a mistake and I grind myself up. I say something that shouldn't have come out of my mouth, and I dwell on it. I see someone's disapproving glance and I wear it for days. A friend disapproves of something and it shakes my foundation enough that I question myself for days. I'm not going to do this anymore, friends.

Last night my foster son called me to talk him down from a fight with his biological parents. He Called Me. Because he feels heard, because he feels safe, because he knows that I will listen to him. My 20 yr. old asked me to be his mother. Because he knows I mean it when I tell him I love him. My 12 year old is integrous, funny, and self-assured because he grew into that for himself, because there is space for him to explore who he wants to be. And my 8 yr old is in control of himself and is learning to trust and feel pride in who he is because I made space for him to grow even when it was hard.

The proof is right there, and I have been ignoring the obvious because I wanted validation from the adults. I needed to convince the ones that don't believe in me. I wanted to prove that I could be the good parent. But the proof is right here in these kids, and how we are together. And I'm not going to ask for anyone else's approval. Not even my own. It's the kids that I have to listen to.

C-R-A-P Week

It has been a crap week. Seriously. There were several times where I considered drowning myself in my toilet. Except, as my oh so charming (and very dry sense of humored) twelve-year-old let me know, my head is too big to expect to reasonably drown myself in the toilet. Perhaps I should try the bathtub.

I know a lot of people will assume it is because of the end of the my brief love affair, but I moved through that one quickly. Today, I'm at peace. It was bad timing for both, and oh but we made each other feel good for a short bit of time. How can I feel anything but joy over that? And, as I explained to a friend before, my life was so good before and he only added to it. Him being gone didn't ever take anything away, and ahhh, the reminder of the luscious juiciness I have (and had!) inside me.

But it wasn't C-R-A-P because of him, but for a whole bevy of communication issues with others. People I disappointed, made angry, misconstrued, didn't construe at all, whatever.

I went to the practica last night with the intention to listen. Just really listen. Not filter, not push my own, but to just listen because apparently this week I've dropped that ball on listening and/or interpreting in my other relationships. And what I got was a warm reminder that I am worthy, that people want my input, that misconstruing something can be turned into a different movement with equally pleasurable results, and that an off moment is just that--another moment.

I needed to dance last night. I needed it. Funny how it has become more than just music, more than just connection, more than an ever-pounding series of thoughts. It's become something my body craves, something that soothes my mind, something that allows me to reflect. It's become part of me and how I move through my day. How did I get by before tango?

Timeless Moment

You know that timeless moment between beats, where the whole world stops and there is no sense of hurry, or rush, of think-what-next, because you have all the time in the world?

That's where I feel like I'm sitting with my tango.

At that moment, between beats.

mmmm.....

Music

So, now that I feel like I am starting to be able to discern different styles, orchestras, etc., I am wanting to really delve into the music. But my cobbled together collection rarely has names, dates, etc, which is maddening. It's ridiculous to sit and hope I hear a particular piece of music somewhere where I can ask for all its dirty little secrets.

So, tango friends, how did you build your tango collections? Where did you find the music? What are the must-haves?

Where's the Tango?

I haven't blogged much about tango in the last couple weeks because I've been doing a lot of dancing and a lot of growing.

I feel like I jumped several levels, and found the right teacher at the right time, and let my heart and ego go enough to be able to receive the lessons.

I had a wonderful class on Music with a friend, where a lot of the intuitive knowing of the music was broken down into words and thoughts, and that helped my musicality immensely. I feel like I have a long long long way to go, but I'm a couple steps closer.

I also had that moment where it really hit me that I have to give, and a couple of dances that reinforced it for me. Before, I would hear what was being asked, and I would (hopefully) do it, but I wasn't in there. I was too busy worrying about whether I was doing the thing he asked. Somewhere in there, I found my connection and was able to put a little of myself into the dance. So now when I'm asked to cross, I don't just have to rush to the cross, but I can do it with the flavor I want it to have.

But really, there aren't words to describe what I'm learning. It's all integration. I needed this step so I could relax and enjoy it a little, and so that I can start really working on technique.

so, that's the tango update.

This is my 100th post!

DRugs

So, today is my last day on birth control pills. I started Lupron last Sunday.

With surrogacy, they control every aspect of my reproductive cycle. They put me on birth control pills to know just where I am and to control when I shed my lining. They put me on Lupron to suppress my ovaries so I don't ovulate. Then they ask me to bleed one more time. Once I do, they start me on Estrogen to build my endometrial lining. They can hold me in stasis with Estrogen for a while, for weeks or longer, until the Intended Mother has nice ripe eggs developing in roomy follicles. Right before they harvest her eggs, they start me on Progesterone, to simulate the hormonal process that happens in early pregnancy. So we suggest to my body that I am ready and then we put in embryos and HOPE.

We will transfer happily dividing embryos, probably 2, into my prepared uterus on September 23rd. On October 4th, we will draw blood for a quantitative HCG count. Hopefully the numbers will tell us we are pregnant.

I don't mind the hormones so much. They make me feel a little off stability, but they remind me that I have to be gentle with myself and others. They shine a light on the romanticism I often push aside because of business. They push me to really think about my gut reactions.

I love these people that I am hoping to carry for, and each time I talk with them, each time I hear her tell me with pride something about her son that I grew, I am overcome with joy and gratitude. I am part of their happiness, their world.

I really want it to work this time. I really want to hear the joy when the nurses call me with the number. I really want to hear their full body retention as we wait for the second beta, and then the u/s because they've, we've, already had so many disappointments. Please, please, please let it work this time.

Imagine My Frustration

In honor of Wallflower Wednesday....



I love you, Ella.

WallFlower Wednesday

Why Wallflower Wednesday? There's no t-a-n-g-o on Wednesdays.

Thanks, Onzin.

Short-Lived

and so I'll say it was short-lived, and what pleasure to have those few moments together. And it will be Truth, but really, only half-Truth.

Because, really, what can I say? What words can I let fall from my mouth that describe how I feel? It would be an unstoppable torrent, and probably unintelligible.

Because, really, it doesn't make sense. We had little time together. Certainly not enough to warrant this depth and complexity of feeling.

Because, really, he was honest and kind and moral (gag, choke, vomit--what girl wants moral?).

Because, really, how can it leave this hole right there? How can there be a dent that is filling with sadness, despair, and loss? I didn't have any Right to him. I didn't have any Right to lose myself in those feelings.

Except that Right that comes from knowing there is more there than just liking the way he smells, or the way his voice softens, or the surprising vulnerability he shows. There are lifetimes of interaction that played out in a few simple body exchanges.

And I said that if we walked away I would be grateful for the reminder that I can love again, grateful for the chance to examine some long held beliefs, that I would understand and be gracious. That I would celebrate him caring for himself, and I would look forward with joy to the next opportunity we had. And those things are true. They are. I mean all of them, and will eventually feel just exactly those things.

But right now, I just want to cry at the loss. At the chances missed. At the stories we won't share. I didn't expect to open my heart. I didn't expect to desire someone so completely. I didn't expect.

and I am stunned. And I know there is a wall of people out there, and they are going to ask. and what can I say to them?

just that it was short-lived, and what pleasure those few moments we had were.

Thursdays

I don't plan it this way, friends. But for some reason, on Thursdays, the words literally come flying out my fingertips. I have little else to say all week, but Thursdays....

So, I apologize for cluttering up your readers, for overwhelming you, or for just taking over your day (narcy of me to think that I would get that much attention from you, no?), but the blogGODS have apparently decreed that Thursday is Throw-Up day....

so there you are.

Enjoy!

Jesus, Zombies

Stupendous Child: [completely sweet, innocent and sincere in this question] Mom, if Jesus rose from the dead, does that mean he's a zombie?

Many Mom: [completely sweet, innocent and sincere in this answer] Yes, dear, Jesus eats brains.

this morning.

This morning I started my day shushing my newly-20 yr old. awwwwww....... I got to be irritated with my 20 yr. old way too early this morning. It's totally made my day.

Yesterday, 19-yr-old turned 20.

I hadn't talked to him in about a week. I came home from work, and my 12 year old says, "Mom, call 20-yr-old." So I do, at the provided number, one I don't recognize.

20-yr-old: Mom*, I'm stranded in Springfield.
ManyMom: Happy Birthday!
20-yr-old: Thanks. Mom, I'm stranded in Springfield.

[...]

Long story short, he wants me to come rescue him. so i do.

******

At midnight, as I am bleary eyed and going to bed, he is chirpily making impromptu plans for a party the next day. AT MY HOUSE. clever child. I missed all the details, warm and fuzzy in loving him; who says no?

At 7:22 am, I suddenly bolt out of bed, remembering no one put out the garbage.
"20-yr-old, go put the garbage out." Which he does, good lad.

20-yr-old: Mom, can you like, get up and clean a little?
ManyMom: What? What? 20-yr-old, no. I'm not up. You're seeing things"
[pause]
20-yr-old: Mom, they're gonna be here at 9.
ManyMom: WHAT?!? You knowingly invited people to be here, at my house, at 9 IN THE MORNING? Why? Why would you do that?
20-yr-old: [flipping explanation deleted, because it was not even remotely a good enough reason]
ManyMom: WHY did you think that would be a good idea?
20-yr-old: Well, at 3:42am, when we decided this, it seemed like a good idea.
ManyMom: sigh, yes, I guess it would.

I remember those days.

So, I remind him that NO ONE gets to talk to me until I've had coffee and he'd better go meet his friend at the bus stop and NOT bring him home at 9 am. In exchange, I will cook for them, get snacks and promise not to embarrass him too much in front of his friends when they return LATE in the afternoon.

20-yr-old: Mom, um, can I, like, have some money...for bus fare?
ManyMom: I don't have any money right now. You have to plan ahead. I haven't been to the bank yet. I have no money. Hey, where's your money?
20-yr-old: Well, can't you just, like, write me a check or something?
ManyMom: For bus fare?
20-yr-old: Mom, can I make you some coffee or something?

Goodness, but I love being his Mom.

UPDATE: They showed up at 10am. TEN. /exasperation!
_______________________________________________________________
*Last week, 20-year-old, after emptying my entire refrigerator, sidles up to me and stares over my shoulder while I'm catching up on your blogs, until I turn around with eyes wide as dinner plates to tell him to STTOOOOOPPPPP IT.

"um, can I like, call you my mom? Will you be my mom? Like, can I tell my friends that's who you are?"

/melt, melt, melt

"of course, i would love if you called me mom. now go put the dishes away."

i feel better

i have spent the last several days feeling fairly neurotic about life-at-large (thank you pre-IVF hormones!) and was gearing up for another day of hating my foibles when Jenny the Bloggess directed me here.

I'm so much better than these people.

Wanna share yours?

WallFlower Wednesday

Thanks, Yukiroad, for tonight's inspiration.

Surrogacy 101

Surrogacy 101 from Kym, a fellow surrogate and all around amazing woman, at I'm a Smart One.

I could say it all, but she already has. So, if you have no idea what surrogacy is, if you want more details but don't want to ask, if you are just wanting a more complete picture, stop by her blog and read up.

We are preparing for our second journey, where I will hopefully be carrying a sibling for Baby Boy and his wonderful parents. I'll be blogging about it as it all happens, so if you have questions, go ahead and ask. I know this is different and unusual, and I'm happy to answer any questions you have.

Being a surrogate for S&S has been one of the most amazing adventures in my life, and I am thrilled to do it with them again!

My Little Sister: A tanguera in the making

My 14 year old sister spent last week with me, and I drug her to all my usual tango events.

By Sunday, tango was all she could talk about! Ha!

Saturday night I took her to the milonga with me. We got there a little later than I normally do, and the floor was pretty quiet. I let her know she might not get many dances. Boy, was I WRONG! That girl got dance after dance after dance. I think she only sat out maybe 2 or 3 tandas. I was so happy for her.

And that's it. She's hooked.

Surrogacy

A little over a year ago I delivered a beautiful baby boy for a family in New York. He and I aren't related in any way; he carries none of my genetics. We used their egg and sperm, and I grew them a wonderful little boy.

And now we are ready to do it again.

It's a process. We have to do another egg retrieval, so our cycles will be matched. I started birth control pills a couple of days ago, and I have just a couple weeks before I start the Lupron. We will put embryos ready to grow into my uterus in just over a month.

I am excited to carry for this family again. They are dear friends, and I couldn't feel luckier to be part of creating their family. I will be overjoyed to see them in September, and to spend time with Baby Boy.

Parenting & Tango

My dear friend and an inspiration, Johanna, asked "Have you found that Tango has had any effect on your parenting, either good or bad?"

I think of this a lot. Tango came into my life at a time when I was crawling out of survival mode. I was releasing the mantle of sacrifice, asturity, and anger that had dogged me my entire parenting experience. It was the thing I was finally doing for myself.

This also coincided with my children growing a bit, old enough to be home together for a couple hours. Old enough to allow me to go be a grown up beyond a parent.

And so tango has become part of my life, and that of my kids. They tolerate it.

Mom, didn't we listen to this cd, like, 8 times yesterday? I can't hear that one song one more time. I am going to scream. Yes, mom, we can all tap out the beat. Yes, mom, we can all hear the delicate melodies. We want to listen to Weird Al now.

It was only 4 times. I want it in their souls. Tango is good for them. The music; it will make them ....more.

Mom, don't you have tango tonight? You should go dance. You're beautiful when you dance. You always look so happy when you come home. Go dance tonight. Can we have ice cream while you're gone?

Really?, you think I'm beautiful? Ok, I'll go dance. Ice cream? uh, do we have any? sure, go for it. beautiful, really?

No, mom, we won't dance with you. Go find some old guy to dance with. Mom, stop. You're embarrassing me. I won't move. I'm not gonna move. You can't make me. I don't care if all I have to do is walk. Mom, get away from me!

But it couldn't be sweeter to have a dance with my own son! The girls will think it's hot. It will make you interesting! Hey, where are you going?

Tango has become part of the very core of my being, and I know my boys feel it. I know they see it as the thing I love for myself, the thing that keeps me happy, the thing that fills me up. I was worried they would feel jealous when they began to know the passion I have for tango, but I think they don't mind sharing me.

I think they like that I leave them home 3 or 4 nights a week to play video games while I dance my heart out.

So, Johanna, yes, it has effected my parenting, but not in any different way than it's effected everything else in my life.

Beyond gender & sexuality

It hit me hard these last few days how dearly I've clung to a sexual identity. Truth be told, from about the time I was twelve I knew I didn't care one whit about a person's gender. I didn't care how they identified, what their sexual organs were, or any other conventional form of creating attraction.

For me, it was all about the person.

I don't want to be identified as bisexual. It's a hard lot. The lesbians shun you and assume you will leave them for a man, or that you will ask them to have sex with you and a man. They don't take you seriously. The het men often are gross and pervy, and think only of the option to satisfy their own wants. There's a stigma to being bi. People assume you are disrespectful, in it for sex, and that there is a misfunction to you, some abuse or happening that made you unable to pick a side.

So when I realized I'd have to choose, I chose lezzie. I love women. I do. I love how their soft bellies yield to my kneading fingers. I love when their voices get husky with desire, I love the soft downy hair that is nearly imperceptible as it laces the curve of their hips into their backs. I love how they smell and how they taste. It felt like no loss to identify. And it was good to have community.

But now I've been greeted by a man, and surprises, I respond. With his demanding hands on my hips, I yield. Because he knows how to ask. Because I want him to ask. And I am contented.

So I think I'll release all the labels. I thought I wanted the community, but I realize it really is as strict and narrow whether you identify as queer or het, and those labels just really never fit. It's enough for me to love the person I am with, to enjoy what he or she offers, and to relish in that person's particular beauty.

Momentous

Well, dear friends, it appears that I have been blindsided by the coyote gods.

Just a few days back I extolled the virtues of, and proclaimed my love for, the single life. I shared with a friend newly in love that while I was happy for her, I thought her insane. I watched their puppy dog adoration and rolled my eyes, content in the knowledge that my lofty place of contented aloneness would outlast their obnoxious enthusiasm for one another.

But friends, I've met someone. It's true. I don't go to the dark side unwillingly, understand. I am standing on the edge of the pool, arms outspread, ready to slide through his cool and inviting depths.

That's right friends, his.

It's not unheard of for me to have a male lover. It's happened off and on through the years. After my last male lover, I decided it was time to stop playing. At some point I would want to commit to someone, to be a monogamous partner, to consider spending a good portion of my life with that one person. And if that was the case, I would have to choose between men or women. I love them both, so the decision really came down to who I would be willing to give up having sex with. I couldn't consider a life without loving women intimately, and so dedicated myself to focusing on that reality.

And I was happy, for the most part, with that decision.

But you know when you come home? That's how this feels. I never expected to feel this again. One moment I was minding my own business, the next we're entwined. It's been days only, friends. We went from nothing to everything in days, and it is glorious.

You don't know me, so have no idea how momentous this is, but it is. Momentous.


yes, he dances. are we doomed now?

WallFlower Wednesday

I don't feel much like a wallflower right now.
In fact, I feel like I'm glowing.

Love your children

What I do shouldn't be considered extraordinary. It should be the minimum that each and every child gets from each and every parent. It's not right that the wonderful boy I have in my home is being told he is lucky to have someone see the good in him. What's wrong with our society that it is a "lucky" thing to be loved, to be appreciated, to be seen, to have someone see you for the miracle you are?

And you know what? I'm not even the "good" mom. If I were the mom I wish I were, I'd actually LOVE game night, not just tolerate it. I wouldn't skip out on my kids to go dance tango. I would be eternally patient and truly value each little thing that they do, rather than wish they would hurry hurry hurry up. I wouldn't rush them through the bedtime ritual because I wanted alone time. I would love that my 8 year old still wants to sleep with me, so I could noozle his little boy head that is growing too fast.

but instead, I do the minimum of at least LOVING them. so why can't everyone else?

How can I be this happy?

I know, I know! You all aren't interested in how over the top happy I am. But I am, and I have to tell people.

You know when you drive your car through the car wash and it is shiny and fresh? That's how I feel. I feel shiny and polished and clean and fresh. (why the car wash analogy? because they make me happy. I always giggle as I drive through. and I have a little song I sing too, at the top of my lungs. my kids won't even go with me anymore.)

I feel lighter, sexier, more grounded, more in love, more...me. and, you know what? I am. All of those things!

and I just thought i would share.

Wallflower

If I have to be a wallflower, I choose to be this one.

Thanks, FlowerXP.

You know you're a tango addict when....

You know you are a tango addict when you are a lesbian and all you can think about is his embrace.

Your turn. No fair cheating.

And if this isn't enough...take the Tango Survey, How Addicted Are You?

you moved me

the music told a story i got lost in
of a quickening peak
and the soft mewling laughter
of this release, and
the small sigh as he moved again
within her
and she gave

and your steps

moved me across the floor and
we breathed together