Her

A poem about 'her.'

I hold her warm hand in mine
and wrap my other arm behind her neck
moving my feet with hers
in time to the music whose beat
flows past us like the ticking
of the cosmic
clock on a summers afternoon.

Our feet tap beneath us.
My eyes close
if just for a second
to appreciate the loneliness
without the woman
whom I see before me and
the emptiness in my heart
when she's gone,
even just
for that
beat.

Tick.
The beat would tick on without us,
even if her cherry-red heels
(with matching lips and
nails to form the blood
red trio)
weren't tapping along
with my dance shoes
at this very
moment.

Tock.
The clock with its thunder
ticks along with
the steady beat of
the music's rain, and
lucky me she's
no Cinderella
having to leave
when the clock
strikes 12
in the morning.

And lucky me
that I am the person who
she choose to be with
after long nights of
hot heads
stuffy noses
and tasteless foods.
She chose me
to be her wife.