To Dance

It was like the distant boy in the hall
who could tie my tongue
and send my heart into next week.

It grew into a month of conversations
by the locker, a number folded in a palm:
the possibilities of a perfect world.

I felt the speeding pulse,
new love, bliss you believe in forever.
To dance was ecstasy—

the rush of loving and falling
lost in the thrill, the spin
and sound, a step and sweep

always one degree from sprawling—
and fear, the heady need to make it right.
Hours of rehearsing, a burst on stage.

Then, the missed glance, skipped beat,
like when the guy stopped calling.
The stillness stretched a week and more.

Years after a crush, it crashes back.
Surrounded by plush red seats
in someone else's auditorium,

I watch the house lights dim,
listen with half an ear
for the phone that doesn't ring.