blue in green.

The pulsating swing rhythm slyly swayed her hips from side to side. The dimly lit room murmured meandering speech, and the occasional laugh bursted overtop of the trumpet's horn. But she couldn't hear it. All she heard was the gentle hit of the brush hitting the snare. She closed her eyes, lifted her arms and rested them on her head as the world outside her lids disappeared.

There was a moment, one beautiful holy moment, in which our eyes met: a slow song had slowly snuck up on us, and all of the sudden, a soft slur from some horn began to soundtrack our modern love. I looked down at my feet and grinned. The hazy fog of that dank club clouded her closed eyes, and she slowdanced herself to sleep. And O the bass! How could I forget that screaming, whispering, hidden bass that shook the soles of our feet, while it gently untied the strings in our shoes.

Undeveloped love was met by an infinite string of beautiful music that night. We'll just continue to glance for now; the memory that gets wrapped up in melodies and rhythm s is a hard friend to say goodbye to. The songs will be our soundtrack, and someday we'll have our dance.