The Girl in the Picture

I wish I’d danced with the girl in the picture.
Her arms bend at an angle I’ve never seen in waking life,
Her sinews are taught as if she holds the whole world aloft.
She’s looking at the camera like it’s a window to my soul,
Her legs will never move in time with mine.
Swirling on the dance-floor we could have found reality,
Entwined in music I may have been able to make her happy.
Feet tripping and slipping in our own astral orbits,
Shadows of our children appear as we cavort through space.
Bodies pressed gently to each other in awkward anticipation,
Our arms raised to a slightly uncomfortable height as we spin.
Breasts and chest melting into each other like appetent butter,
Eyes transfixed by each others swirling pools of optical jelly.
Hypnotic rhythm and tribal fever erupt as the tune breaks,
Lusty legato love and a desirous dance duet.
I spin slowly in my bedroom tracing imaginary steps,
She is frozen mid swing with her impossibly bent arms.
I wish I’d danced with the girl in the picture.
It looks like she’s doing the Macarena.
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