You Dance On Tabletops

You, yes you, the little one with the flannel shirt spilling down to your knees over faded jeans, seeming years younger than the ones you play with, how was it? Curly bangs obscured what your hazel eyes so eagerly sought, the light at the end. Were you frightened or comforted by the still and black enveloping you? And did you think yourself a failure when you didn’t reach the end and bathe in that light, when you found yourself once again a spectator at the tunnel’s mouth, or did you glory in your victory over eternal darkness, engineered not by yourself but at the whim of the gods? Or do you not now care? Have you erased it from your mind, treating it as if it didn’t happen, offering no breathless recounting to sate the curious? You refuse to say, but when the music plays you dance on tabletops.