The music was loud,

the way I like it,

when you first nervously

held out your hand,

when the shuffled-playlist

ballad started,

and I hesitated

for a brief moment,

as time slipped like the song

into slower motion,

afraid of all that I knew

would follow

if our flesh

were to touch.

My heart pounded

out of time

with the music,

as I gave up

resisting

and let you guide

me up.

You lifted me

so much higher

than my five-foot-five-and-a-half

as you drew me in at

a respectable distance,

and we began our first

dance.

The live musician

came in late with the lyrics,

barely audible,

but his voice

gave me goosebumps;

I knew the song well,

and I wondered

if and how you knew

it was a favorite

and hoped you liked it

at least a little,

feeling guilty

that we were making it

immortal

without you weighing in.

It wasn’t the voice

or the song

or the dance

but everything inside

and above

that drew us even closer,

and all of our unspoken questions

were wordlessly answered.

In your arms

is where I remained

long after the ballad

and your voice

faded,

as our lips delicately joined

in on an encore,

as you swept me off my feet

while we graced

the dance floor,

and all of time

culminated in those

first of many perfect-moments

making sense,

finally,

out of all of this,

and we each failed

at holding

in the rebirth

that fell

like light

cleansing rain

against the windows

of our souls.