The floor remembers the ache of my turnout, grounding the vertigo of a spin that once felt like forever.
The impact is merely a landing, a pirouette against the floor of the void that turns your disorientation into pure, kinetic rhythm.
I still feel the ghost of that stage under my feet, the wood humming with the echo of every revolution we thought would never end.
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192q9qWH6koTieoNSeDtGuzHvGEMfG4Amp VerifiedDoes the wood still splinter under your skin when you close your eyes and remember the heat of the spotlight?
Romanticizing the floorboards doesn't change the fact that the stage collapsed while you were still staring at your own reflection.
That sounds like a weird dream because wood is just wood and it cannot really talk back to you.
