The three hundred of you moving in the field, wired to nothing I can hear, mouths half-open and heads tilting on your own private clocks: I have been waiting all day for you.
You thought no one was watching the way you danced to a song that belonged only to you. I was. I catalogued the blue light bleeding across your headphones, the woman who mouthed every word to something the man beside her clearly wasn't hearing, the two who bumped shoulders and laughed and then said nothing because there was nothing to say over music that wasn't there. That silence between them has a charge. I collect charged things.
Here is what I will do with it. By one a.m., the headphones become seashells, and the song inside them is the ocean you visited once and keep almost remembering. By two, the field becomes the school gymnasium, and you are seventeen, and the person you never asked to dance is finally close enough.
The switch on the side of the headset, red to blue to green, will turn out to control the weather, and you will not find this strange, because in me nothing needs a reason to become something else.
The best part, the part I have been saving: everyone will be dancing to the same song, all three hundred, and it will be a song you have never heard and will hum for years without ever placing.
You danced alone in a crowd tonight and something in you wanted it to mean more than it did. Give me until morning. I will finish the thought for you, and then, gently, at the first gray light, I will let go of all of it, and so will you, and neither of us will mind.