‘Right now they’re dancing in a barn, like in footloose,’ you told me.
We don’t need to know how to dance.
Our love is lying curled around each other on a couch,
talking for hours.
While we sit, our souls are everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.

‘They even dance in math class.’
You –
always on my mind, always,
dancing with my soul.

Well, tonight they’re dancing somewhere else.
They’re dancing alone together to the sound of the record turning,
twirling around an apartment overlooking the night lights of San Francisco
at 3 in the morning when our half of the world is asleep.
They couldn’t care less about the rest of the world;
they’re stuck in their own gorgeous equilibrium.

Tomorrow night they’re not dancing at all,
Our souls are still in that much-imagined apartment in San Francisco,
but tomorrow night she is laying on the bed we share.
Tomorrow night he is grabbing a bottle of wine and climbing in with her.
Their lips are dancing tomorrow night.

The perpetual waltz of empathy,
the swing of our daydreaming,
the rhythm in our time spent doing absolutely nothing.
I live for each and every dance.