and in that second of a shooting star
She does this thing, when she’s dancing.
She does this thing.
Hand held up, flat, like a waiter.
As if she’s pushing her cares and worries skyward, into an infinite universe that surely can shoulder the weight for the next three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
She deserves it.
Her head tilts side to side.
Both sides are her good side.
So fucking good.
She’s lost in the song.
That much is clear.
I’m lost in her.
And if we’re lost, then we are lost together.
And only Canadians will get that reference.
She spins once.
Beauty and magic take notes.
She spins again.
The background admits defeat.
She sings along.
As if the words are her own.
As if she MUST share them.
I heard someplace — or maybe I made it up — that a dance is not a destination, but a journey.
I’ll never be able to fully explain how excited and honoured I am to have been invited to join her on the trip.
Maybe I’ll write something to try.
But not until this song is over.
In the meantime…
She has this dimple, when she’s smiling.
She has this dimple.