midnight

My heart beats faster, whenever he dips me. His tougher, experienced hands, guide me through it. A bachata. And then a salsa. And I can't stop smiling, as he twirls me again and again, gazing on me softly.

The little hairs on his hard, bare chest. Midnight skin, under my tannish hand. The sight of it makes me want to pause and just, stare, but I don't. I don't want to stop. 

With a slight tug of his hand, I know to spin to him.

A gentle press on my back. I should press my chest against his. 

A smile against my hair means I stay there.

And we sway. As if we've known each other for much longer. And maybe that's true, in some other life, but in this life, it's our dance. And all dances end. 

Prince Royce plays on and I'm cheek to chest with a gentle bean. A soft bean. A tough bean.

And I feel like a princess, when he dips me. His arms, as thick as his neck, bulging under a tattoo that laces around and around, are dependable. I trust them, so I let myself dip so completely. And just as I suspected, he catches me steadily, as I "yelp". I swear I almost...

His cocky grin hovers close above my face. Nose to nose. A tease, and my breath hitches. 

"You didn't think I could handle you, huh?" he asks, smirking, after pulling me close again.

I mumble into his chest something about being a thick Vietnamese bean, about really putting my weight into that one, about how much of a little ass man he was--

He's had enough. 

"Let's see what I can do," and he makes me really yelp this time, picking me up and spinning with me in his arms, bridal style.

His beard tickles my chest and I laugh whole-heartedly.

This is what it means to be a princess.

The rest of the evening, I found him kissing my forehead and making me cry all over his chest, when he recounted the story of towns that flooded and drowned Black residents overnight. "Families gone. Just like that. People hated black excellence back then."

More injustice to cry about. Agh. 

Agh. The Christmas lights on my curtain cast a dewy glow on his face. His chest. His mind.

There, I am lost in all the stories of American history, written and re-written and re-packaged and at some point, we find some kind of truth in it together. And we twist away quickly when we realize that-- shit. 

Is it already midnight?

Is it already, truly? 

Midnight is when we make sure you make it home. Midnight is when I kiss you good-bye on my stairs, in my little Asian pajamas.

Midnight is when I have all of myself again. My body still remembering how incredible it was to dance bachata again with a good leader. God, you move your shoulders like you've partied all your life. You dance sooo good, you make me smile like a kid. And you're so smart, yet so arrogant. Agh. So cocky to a fault, knowing how good you look walking into any party, any social. And you're right. You do.

Despite your silliness to a fault, I'm glad I met you.

To dance the way that I love to dance felt like muscle memory. Like a poem that someone is writing for me, somewhere in his corporate or blue-collared job somewhere in America. As if he's speaking to me through all the boys I've loved before.

He's probably whispering out there, somewhere at midnight, "Little lady, I'm coming for you. You better hold yourself together. You better be ready when we meet. Game over."

For now, I hold my midnights in little places. I hold myself at midnights mostly. I try not to lose myself in all this social dancing. I just wonder, if you're out there, and you're going through your own things right now. Maybe you're out tonight, enjoying several High Noons with the boys, while I'm out here, calling my girlfriends and giving them free virtual tarot card readings. 

Maybe you're ready to throw me into the truck and drive us out to see the Milky Way galaxy. Finally.

Maybe you're ready to cry with me about all the history of social injustice in America and the world. Pressing a thumb to my cheek and catching one, before pulling me to your chest while I sob forever about something I just read.

Maybe you're going to send me letters and flowers, no matter where I am in the world, simply because you missed me and my voice. I hope you do. >-<

This poem isn't about young woman empowerment. This poem isn't about being Miss Independent, I'm sorryyyyyy T__T, because...

midnight is for feeling romantic and reminding someone out there that I'm soft bean. :)