It is the swirl, ah, the twirl of laughter
blending hoops,
caressed, undressed with light fantastic,
small steps,
quick flicks.
We sway, away, tingling with burst of flight.
How trim, how sensual those Senegalese hips!
As the Bachata envelopes us in its languorous abandonment,
we rejoice in their envy-soaked grasp.
Drowned in cocktails and promise
of bloodened lips, how alone
she felt, past desire, amid the rhythms, the tropical beats.
Not young enough
or pretty enough
the sequins now scattered,
a face in the crowd, too much flesh in a sweat,
as she seeks to convey
all her love for the music,
and forget.
And forget.
findingtimetowrite 