You were always the better dancer.
I had the legs but your feet could rattle out steps quicker and slicker than my heels could. Your feet could kick, spin and twirl, sashaying circles around me.
So I stopped dancing and stood still.
It didn’t matter that I had the legs, the curves the lips, the perfect smiles for photo flash moments. You were the dancer who flew down streets and step-ball-changed down walkways; toes never quite touching down long enough for me to count the footwork. You choreographed your life into routines that only you knew.
Knowing you didn’t help.