It was glorious, when we danced together.

We baltered, dancing artlessly.

We felt infinite,

                                 young,

                                                  wild,

                                                               free,

                                                                           invincible.

Our feet shattered beneath us, but we kept spinning and sprinting around the room: nothing could stop us.

We were uncontrollable juggernauts! The world would bow before us.

But soon I was overcome with tarantism: a melancholy crept into my souls and held me still.

Suddenly I didn't feel like dancing anymore.

I didn't feel like being carefree.

I had grown old, and I was too tired to waltz around the room with you.

You--you kept flying around the room, and I became aware of your gracelessness.

I realized that I, too, didn't have the talent to dance.

We both had two left feet, but that didn't seem to bother you.

I hated you for it!

Or maybe I was just jealous--maybe envy was trying to drown me, because you could dance and not wonder what the world thinks, but I was so self-conscious.

I was jealous of your innocence--no, not innocence. Your ignorance.

I could never go back, I could never dance again.

So I walked out of the room, and I knew you wouldn't notice. You never really noticed me. You never bothered to understand me, to know me.

When we danced together, we were dancing alone.

I'll be better off--I am better off, when I don't have to dance with you anymore.

I don't want to dance with you anymore!

Stop trying to make me dance!

I don't want to waste time on something that no one will remember us for!

I'll forget you, don't worry. I'll forget the way you stumbled around the room, trying to samba. I'll forget how you stepped on my feet, and blamed me for it. I'll forget your awkward movements, and your bad taste in music. You forget me so easily, but darling, don't worry: I can forget, too.

I just don't want to dance with you.