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He crashed into my life, kind of like the ocean in Corpus Christi, slamming into the seawall. It was a repeated action, a dance almost. It had many parts to it. At first, it was a slow waltz. We danced around each other, like predators sizing each other up. It turned into a passionate tango, almost drowning each other in the other's emotions. It left me breathless, gasping. Then... it all changed. Our feet weren't synchronized anymore. I looked away and missed a step. We fell into our own rhythms, and, for a time, we danced to our own beats. His, savage, like drums beating to a warrior song, preparing for battle, for a march into death. Mine, like a slow dance, melancholy music and lingering movements. Eventually, I know, my own dance became lighter. More like new age evangelical. Heartfelt and hopeful. His... his made its way into punk rock, somewhat angry and cynical, the movements agonized. We met again, and our melodies began to merge once more. But there was a different resonance this time. It became a piano ballad. Dark and powerful. Our dance turned purposeful... knowing. Aware. We held eye contact, and his movements... his movements were surging with power. With betrayal. With vengeance. Long after my eyes had turned from him had he built up to this moment. An ultimate revenge for my initial treachery, and I saw it coming. A new dancer entered the scene. She, aware and yet uncaring of my presence. She sashayed between he and I. As we parted, and he cradled her softly on the final note, he looked up to meet my eyes, and he grinned. Dark. Sadistic. I was crushed, and crumpled to the floor. They danced away from me, and I lay, defeated, on the gound, understanding the fault was mine. Understanding... trying to dance to another's song leads not to a da capo, but to a fin.