They all say they’ll dance with you in the beginning.
We’ll move the furniture in the living room
and I’ll teach you,
I’ll say.
It’s all about tension,
between us two,
held in our arms.
Away and towards.
Stretch and contract.
That’s all dancing really is,
I’ll say,
The musicality of a connection between any two souls.
It’s art.
And they oblige at first.
But they never make good on their empty words.
Promises of holding each other close,
as the music slows.
Promises of a lively jive,
or a passionate salsa.
Promises of
3 and a half minutes of
of heart racing
of flirtatious chasing
of chests barely touching
of electrifying
bachata.
When the whole room falls away around you both.
And all there is, is you two.
And the rhythm guiding your movements,
And the air in between your bodies,
And everything else fades to black,
And,
And,
They bottle it.
Say they’ll do it another day. Another time. They’re not in the mood. Or they’re too tired.
Okay, I’ll say.
I metaphorically put the furniture back to its original place,
turn the music off,
and the TV on.
stormsinteacups 