The Dance

Life studies me from across the room, drink in hand, a smirk on her face,

she sips her Cosmo and chuckles.

I do not move,

waiting to hear what she says to me,

what she will spare for me,

break down the weight

of the crossroads I carry,

the fear that keeps me up at night,

like,

will I ever get married?

People are dancing

without worry,

I don’t know the moves for that.

But she does.

Her eyes look at me through her empty glass.

Her rings sing as they clip the stem.

She smiles, and shakes her head,

the head that is full of stories like catacombs,

that see fate as it weaves through people’s souls,

the Librarian of Existence.

She sighs and tells me, “You have to find out for yourself, or else you aren’t living.”

“But what if I mess up?”

I dodge a stray elbow as a couple spins beside me.

She shakes her head, her face serious.

I am the dreamer of the family,

a curiosity to doctors and lawyers

who practice practicality,

not poetry.

“You have to let yourself go,

scrape your knees,

trip,

stop worrying about what if and fall,

and you will see how strong you are when you get up.

Now dance,

before the song ends.”

*

Artwork called “Intimacy,” by Thomas Blackshear.