Dear you,

This dance was ours.

Bachata.

This music was ours. The 4 beats that pounded through our blood, our veins, that came to life with the sway of your hips and your arms around my neck.

This music was ours.

I don’t think I ever expressed enough how good you were at this dance. The movements of your hips was as natural as you running your fingers through your hair as you smiled and winked at me through half-closed eyes.

Call me sentimental. Call me foolish for holding on to things that will never happen again. Call me stupid. Whatever.

But this dance is ours. This music is ours. When the bachata starts, its you and your warmth in my arms and your hips moving beneath mine and you felt so right in my arms.

This is ours. Maybe not yours but this will always be my dance with you. No matter how good a dancer I come across to do this dance with me, its not the same because they won’t have the sway, nor the smile, nor the hips, nor the come-hither look in your eyes whenever you dance the bachata with me.

This dance is ours.

Funny how this genre of music was called amargue or “bitterness or bitter music.”

Its subjects are often romantic, especially prevalent are tales of heartbreak and sadness. – Wikipedia.

How apt. Honestly.

Sincerely,

Me.