He never spoke. His words were lyrics, his steps choreography. Dance wasn't mine, but his pure performances drew me to follow his feet. We never danced together, always seperate, me one step behind. He avoided standing still with all of the fear of a man courting death. His fear was an infection, catching as colds do. So I remained hot with him, catching his sickness but never his beat. The tune wasn't mine to hear.

Eventually all things grind to a halt, inevitably. The loss of the music left us speechless, trapped with vocal cords not meant to speak, atrophied. If we weren't singing, we weren't living. We cease, and our song plays on radios and in headsets, forever torn by the static of a missing note. He made the beats.