Our fingers dance around each other
doing the cha cha on faded jeans instead of shiny floors,
picking popped kernels once in a while -
processed butter on the tips of our ballroom thumbs and forefingers.

Let me take a sip of your flat sugar laden drink,
taste it on my lips in a little while.

Hey!
It tickles when you draw question marks on my thighs,
just let your hands make knots with mine.

Train our eyes on the giant screen
where the heroine makes one mistake after another
and isn't that real life?
Blunders and I'm sorry's and
chance meetings and vivid colors
and the boy beside me--
Real. Life.

Maybe we should stay in the flimsy seats
while the credits roll,
pick apart the moving pictures
reminding us of first love and first fears.
Of forgotten dreams and words we lost.

Maybe we should examine the best narrative yet -
you in your soft sweater,
me in my mud-caked shoes.

Hold my hand while we descend the steps;
shadow swallows the bottom,
reminding me of movie monsters and white faced ghosts.

Usher me into the light.

Although, I have to admit,
I see you better when it's dark.