My bare feet touch the sandy boardwalk.
You are still wearing your shoes.
We dance, you insist on leading,
hand at my waist.
I hold on to your shoulder, the better dancer,
more experienced, at this.
The other women look out to sea,
as the lights bounce off the waves.
We can hear the music from the band,
far out of frame, off the canvas,
unpainted, but not unheard.
This summer night,
will it ever end?
I let you go, finally.
You are not my boyfriend.
I am not your husband.
Dance alone, darling one.
Dance alone now.