Writers 
Give me one last dance before the music dies,
before the lights dim low and shadows learn our names,
before the final note dissolves into goodbyes,
let's move like nothing's ending, like nothing ever changes.
Hold me the way you did when we were young and sure,
when every song felt endless, every touch felt new,
when love was just a rhythm we didn't need a cure,
when dancing was a language only we two knew.
I know the clock is turning, I feel the hour near,
I see it in your eyes, the way you hold my hand,
like you're memorizing something you're afraid to lose,
like this floor beneath our feet is turning into sand.
So let the strangers watch us, let the room grow still,
let every worry wait outside this fleeting frame,
for tonight we're only dancers bending to the will
of a song that won't remember either of our names.
One last dance, before the story finds its end,
before the credits roll and silence takes the stage,
let's turn beneath these lights like time was still our friend,
like we could waltz forever past the final page.
And when the music stops and the room begins to clear,
when the dancers drift away and the night grows old and thin,
I'll hold this memory close, this moment crystal clear,
the way you looked at me, before the dance could end.
For dances end, but echoes of the steps remain,
in fingertips that still recall the shape of you,
in melodies that hum beneath the quiet and the rain,
reminding me that once, this love was something true.