Dreams of Dancing, Times of Trial
It was the dance we planned on dancing, on the crowded wooden dance floor, underneath the bright lights and broken disco ball. It was the twirling that would have been; the spinning that could have been; the dips and flips that should have been and the Thursday night I wished would last.
It was the sturdy build that held me in place, the one that felt so familiar, so right. He was taller than most. Enough to strain my neck at times from gazing up for so long, my eyes locked on his dark eyes, speaking certain things I was too shy to say out loud. But his height was handsome and my heels helped me reach his kiss. Besides, I liked the way I fit snugly at his side, tucked beneath his arm.
It was the fifteen minutes spent outside on the sidewalk bench shivering from the cold, wiping the warmth from our brows, laughing because that’s what we liked to do. He took my hand and then my heart. But I let him because it was real. The music playing inside shook through the glass windows and reminded me we weren’t alone and that the panoramic of our storybook scene was something only in my mind.
It was the eight mile ride home and how he took the long way, keeping his foot light on the peddle. It was how he thought I didn’t notice. And the choreography of the night that came to a close as he walked me to the door where he spun me around one last time and kissed my cheek for charm. And as my face hit the pillow and I closed my eyes for sleep, I had dreams of dancing, uninterrupted by trials.
It was a night worth remembering. A night to go down in the vaults of our minds. Like starlight it was sacred. And it was perfect; or at least it would have been. Because hope is a healer, but waiting is suicide. It was the danced we planned on dancing on the night that never was.