At the Ball

Something else I wrote during Poetry class last term; it follows “Prince”.

At the Ball

Ceilings extend to infinity, arches are arms covering our heads.
Golden halls in this golden ball with a faint odor of Mr. Clean.
They watch as the Prince, an oversized penguin, reaches out a hand that says,
“Dance with me?”
Bowtie at 10 and 4, a lopsided grin on his face
That must have sent cholesterol to my arteries
as the only logical explanation for my heart’s erratic behavior
His hands are damp, moist like a car with two horny teenagers on a cold night.

Everyone in their Oscar gowns and suits, envious of our proud display
Of feet shuffling, dips and twirls, our accidental stomping on each other
Whispered apologies, trying to mask our pain with rambunctious laughter.
Shined shoes now boasting scuff marks
The ensemble commands us to waltz, and we bust out our moves.
Chins on each other’s shoulders, ears brushing ears
Bodies fitting perfectly with each other, a jigsaw puzzle completed
We are swaying subtly, glasses on a tablecloth blown by the wind.
I feel a warm ember beneath me and I burn with embarrassment
But suddenly something gently breaks and joins my fire, and he looks away too.
When our eyes meet, we smile, the shame extinguishes between us,
transformed into passion and boldness as we claim this moment as ours forever.
Melodies’ curtains close and people applaud our efforts,
crescendoing as I look at my Prince, bowtie at 11 and 5, lopsided grin tilting even further,
And I engrave a diamond memory with my lips to his.
Everything goes slow-mo as we bathe in our Hollywood screen-kiss
The orchestra keeps its promise to be our DJ, and people swish and swoop around me with joy.

If only I didn’t have to return to my wicked parents’ basement before midnight.