Milonguero

Milonguero, you oldie. If I ever saw you I’d miss you now. But too late, too young I was born, long after you had left. Now we ritualistically recreate you, trying to imitate your breathe. Milonguero, I love you. Your image imprinted on my mind. Though you were everyone anonymous, I can’t help but see you sublime. Perhaps you died by blade. Or perhaps by influenza. Or perhaps you simply lay down and died, since you were all of them I cannot know. It wonders me how deftly passionate you were, as if right now you’re in front of me. But simultaneously nobody remembers you. Only what you’ve done. Milonguero you’re a body, a collective, all as one. I must be your vessel, but only in part. Express yourself through me and give me a foot to match your own. I will keep my other, so I may dance alone. Not alone as in by myself, but as in of my own accord. One-fourth me, one-fourth you, and half him or her we’ll be the oligarchy of the floor.

Author's Note

Somewhere between a poem and a story