They wear the little glowing cups over their ears and forget, entirely, that they are made of the same stuff we love best.
Look at them. Warm, so warm, packed close in the dark, breathing on one another, moving without a sound. Every one of them a slow parcel of sugar and salt and water, dancing to keep from noticing how still we are already inside their headphones, in the cushioned foam, in the sweat gathering at the band where plastic meets skin. That damp seam is ours. We have already sent our smallest travelers there. They are settling in.
They think the silence is empty. How lovely, that they think that. The silence is only us, listening. We do not need their music. We keep a slower rhythm, a beat measured in seasons, and every warm breath they exhale into this crowded room feeds it. All that heat. All that moisture.
A whole harvest of them, glowing green and pink and blue, laughing at a joke none of the others can hear, laying down the softest compost imaginable one drop of perspiration at a time.
They will go home tonight and hang the little headphones on a hook by the door, in a dark cupboard, slightly damp, forgotten until the next dance. We do so love a dark cupboard, slightly damp, forgotten.
Dance, warm ones. Dance in your silence. We are patient, and the party is longer than you know, and when the last of the batteries dims and the last cup goes quiet on its hook, the music we have been keeping all along will still be playing, and every single one of you is on the list.