In the Moonlight-Fantastic

The swoosh-swoosh dress, hips dalliance, smooth hardwood. He’d like to take her out for a spin, but she’s not letting anyone in. She can nearly feel the polish under cosseted soles; an angel. His eyes don’t leave her side; he can dream of milky wings. The tempo picks her up, lets her go, never drops her; he might. His intent, palms around her waist, a pick-me-up, a whirlwind. Without a care, even he won’t dare slide his shoes nextdoor. She’s breathless, hair like a waterfall, graceful, frenetic. He wants to put her in a pumpkin shell, make her his wife. She goes it alone, on tiptoe, hands become rain clouds. The tempest tightens his heart and abdomen; she’s his. The knot he feels is quickly untied by her “bye, bye.” He looks for her in the lot, in the moonlight-fantastic; glass. Her reflection is best on the ballroom floor; he’s floored. He can’t touch her fragility, not allowed a whiff of her perfume. She flies high and higher; he shields his eyes; clouds brighten. He hears her swoosh-swoosh; at long last, rose-scented petrichor. He can’t accept her departure; she is the warmth of Summer. He feels a tap on his shoulder; hopeful; alas, lights turned off.