Rosalie Morris
poetry
poetry
Dizzy
Dirty dancing in a dirty club.
All my usual feelings
of scepticism and fear are drowned
out by the music, the dizzy haze of alcohol and smoke,
drowned out by the warmth of your hands
on my back,
on my hips,
the warmth of your hands on my hands.
Dirty dancing in a dirty club.
Nothing but two bodies
grinding against one another to the tedious beat
of an overplayed pop song.
Meaningless.
But now, somehow,
your cheek meets mine,
and I have that black-and-white movie moment,
the one where I stop believing that
romance is dead
and I think you feel it too,
and all I can do is pray, pray, PRAY
that we both remember this in the morning.