Do you know where the wild things go? They go along to take your honey

Yes, boys and girls, vim and vigor will only get you so far in this dismal fucking dance we call love. Tripped up by my own two left feet, I grant you, but ultimately undone by some slip of a girl cutting in and whirling off with my partner as I limped away nursing my blisters. A better suitor, yes, but of course! Her moves were fantastic with legs like elastic, floating freely across the floor with enchanting abandon. My frenetic flailing to and fro, all elbows and knees, could never compare to that rhythmic sway of hips, hypnotic flash of collarbones and bared teeth. In the end, we were ensnared by our own eagerness to end the pain evident in our swollen and stepped-on toes; that shared desire for deliverance shrouded our eyes, and we could not recognize her motions as memorized mimicry and not mastery. The two of you glided hand in hand, I slipped out to pirouette in the dark, and so it goes. Now I return to the ballroom with a solid understanding of salsa, tango, and waltz under my belt, only to find that your dance card is full. But I keep on trying to squeeze my name in there somehow, somewhere, even if just illegibly scrawled in the margins.