A description of us spinning around

Found an old journal entry I wrote about us, dated Oct. 9, 2009, and thought I'd share it with you today:

We spin around, my arms stretched out, yours close to your sides, and golden sunlight streams through the window across us. First there is the dining room table then the doorway into the kitchen, then the window, then the bright glint in your eye, and you giggle - most likley from the deleriousness that spinning brings, but I also like to think from the gleam of sunlight in my eyes.

Then I deliberately collapse - in part, I tell myself, to ensure you do, too, so you don't fall from dizziness and bump your head against the oak bookcase or a table leg. As I lay on the floor, the ceiling above twirls, and for a split second I close my eyes to stop the motion. You're still spinning with a child's constitution - or maybe you just don't know the danger that total inebriation from such spinning can hold, Or maybe you're fully aware of it and inviting it, testing your limits as children are wont to do. You've become too complex for me to really know the answer. I guess you're finally becoming your own person.

Then you're atop me, collapsing acros my stomach, bracing your fall and laughing heartily, and the slap of your torso against mine breaks me from my reeling as my eyes shoot open. "Do again? Do again?" you shout, and we rise back into the sunlight, my arms stretched out, yours close to your sides, and spin again.