“Her smile was the only tune that my happiness danced to.”

I dipped my heart into the river Styx, holding on to nothing but my memories of you. You’ll always be the Achilles heel to my invulnerable heart.

“May I have this dance”, my tongue asked hers.

Her smile was the only tune that my happiness danced to.

My pent-up passion seeped out like gas from a leaky stove, your touch was the spark I needed to set my body on fire.

I held a funeral for my past. But on occasion, I find myself dropping by its grave with pink roses to thank it for all lessons it taught me.

You reminded me of my first time in Paris; I was fascinated, lost, and I immediately loved everything about it.

We just sat there, staring into each other’s eyes. In the silence, I swear I could hear the beating wings of an angel.

Like sunshine at midnight, you were there for me at my darkest hour when you had absolutely no reason to.

Permanence is a wonderful magician. Now you see him, next he goes on to perform the greatest disappearing act of all time.

I let my mind wander and it always finds its way back to you. like a sweet-toothed child in search of a cookie jar.

Gone, but never forgotten. Like the catchy tune to an old song that I used to love.

Get off your high horse, The entire world doesn’t revolve around you, only mine does.

The stars shone brightly that night. But the brightest ones seemed to have found their way into your eyes.

You’re definitely the queen of somebody’s castle.

Time flies when you are having fun, but stops when you’re in love.

Her face was art and her body was poetry in a short black dress.

You don’t ask what a dance means. You enjoy it. You don’t ask what the world means. You enjoy it. You don’t ask what you mean. You enjoy it.

Churches are good for prayer, but so are garages and cars and mountains and showers and dance floors.

Every dance is a kind of fever chart, a graph of the heart.

All we really want to do is dance.

Dancing is a very living art. It is essentially of the moment, although a very old art. A dancer’s art is lived while he is dancing. Nothing is left of his art except the pictures and the memories–when his dancing days are over.

When in doubt dance it out.

Freedom to a dancer means discipline. That is what technique is for — liberation.

For a long time, I said I didn’t want to model. I was a dancer.