The Last Dance

The rolling curves of her emerald dress
glimmer in the strobe lights
which dance a figure-eight across the floor.

Hips swaying to the steady rhythm,
her gown becomes a bell,
quietly beckoning churchgoers.

Couples litter the dance floor,
clinging desperately to each other for support,
bodies pulled close,
hearts intertwined,
feet moving mindlessly across the clouds.

Her carefully painted eyelids shut—
not to keep the dancers out,
but rather—to bring him in.

The singer begins a haunting melody,
a slow seduction for innocent minds,
the perfect memory trapped within it's notes
revealed at last to those still young in heart—
the last dance.

Her arms reach out to him,
wrapping themselves around his neck,
the tips of her fingers barely touching his soft, brown locks.

Following suit, reading her mind, knowing her motives,
he reaches back, his sturdy hands enveloping the satin at her hips,
soft and warm to his gentle touch.

Words are lost in the moment,
the music absorbing every feeling, every thought,
saying everything their mouths cannot.

In her mind, they dance cheek to cheek,
closer than any couple in the room.

She collects every note, every detail—
the feel of the cool tile against her bare feet,
the hovering smell of perfume, cologne, and sweat,
the sound of hearts meeting for the first time,
the taste of wanting something too far away to have—
she pulls them all close and hides them away,
the last dance.

She gathers every memory,
locking them away until she can feel his soft caress
and brush her hand across his rosy cheek,
until their lips finally touch—
anxious but certain, passionate but refined.

She saves it all so that
together, hand in hand,
they can relive it,
cheek to cheek,
closer than anyone in the room.

She dances the last dance alone,
but in her mind, she's dancing with him.

Always with him.