Every dance is filled with memories
and I feel your hand on my back
smiling into the back of my tuxedo
so perfect and so longing for perfection.
I know this doesn’t rhyme,
that this isn’t a proper song
swan or otherwise
to our near perfect song.
But I take the steps you expect
and your feet move back in time,
perfect,
to the rhythm we’ve fabricated,
out of the horrible music.
At this point you whisper in my ear,
words I won’t reproduce here,
but your body is next to mine,
rubbing and talking,
in its own right.
I know this doesn’t rhyme,
that this isn’t a proper song
swan or otherwise
to our near perfect song.
You hold my hand as we leave the floor,
and with each gaze I’m lifted,
another inch from where my feet used to be,
and you look like you’re on cloud nine
to begin with.
As we approach the table,
a slow song starts,
“Dance me to the end of love”
slow and perfect.
Without words,
we return to the floor.
“Who would play this at a dance?” you ask,
your words and spittle
covering my ear
in harmony.
“I would.” I say, as we take our first steps,
you move like it’s second nature,
and I try to keep time,
clumsy, I’m sure,
but within a good measure of time.
“I know.” You say, and with that you rest your head
on my shoulder
cradled,
perfectly, in oh so many ways.