There’s a suit hanging in your closet. I can’t quite see all of it, but occasionally there’s a glimpse of unfamiliar – to me – material.  In my head, I call it “the bespoke suit” but that’s a combination of my own whimsy and the wordsmithing I have to do during the day to satisfy the gaping maw. To me, I never understand a word that comes from this dark void during daylight hours, but somehow words are demanded so I deliver, keeping my heart far from it. But the word, “bespoke,” both amuses and hints at mystery and a different life, for I know that you know that I have my own bespoke garment that you haven’t seen. I don’t open my closet here, especially when there are people in my house because then one can just see everything, and forget it if I decide to cook or host a party where, inevitably someone wants an illicit cigarette. My clothes will reek for days.

I haven’t seen you put on that suit, yet, but I’ve heard you describe bits and pieces of when and where and how you wore it. Sometimes I hear the smile in your voice, other times the fatigue blurs through. But my favorite times, still, are when I can sit next to you and you, just talk and talk, and the quiet radiance coming from your clear eyes  gives me an insight into the places you see and things you do. It’s an understated and oft overlooked magnificence like actually seeing a star on a cold night in a superfluously illuminated city.

I haven’t worn my dress in years. Now, I know that I dance among many who try to make beautiful movement into something tarnished. They use what I adore, including the soft, kissable folds of silk that float and fly around my  body, when I so choose to exemplify perfection. These are the ones who remember the steps but see their own ,movements from a narcissistic filter. I transmit my sadness not though counter dances to long-lost arias but through quotes from those who remember what it is to be misunderstood. These are the ones I cherish. These are the ones whose words, like yours, touch my soul and elevate my movements to a level i never knew possible. These are the ones that remind me that the beauty and innocence of dance is where I regained my connection to the earth despite still flying far above it. I don’t need a filter to understand where I am in space and time.

I just know that I’m the one on the cold, clear night climbing to the roof in unseasonable silk because you told me that there would be a comet visible in my part of the world, and that you would be looking for it too.