“You and I are dangerous, we want too much and life ain’t that way… no more illusion of the love we made… ” —Gloria Estefan, “Cuts Both Ways”
prayer, like a calling
I have called out to you in the middle of the night in the middle of a(nother) deadline in the middle of a Gloria Estefan YouTube run. Your hands never shake when they are nestled in mine, in my stupid schoolgirl dreams, my pancake king, steel-cut hero, dancer to an endless ’70s track list she cooked up in between her secret romantic conquests disguised as business deals, and those heart-shaped sugar cookies the size of her face.
Dance boy dance.
When I lie, I shake too, the 5.8 of a rare Montana earthquake. There’s no time to wait for you in that phantom gym before your gig and our children’s graduations. My demons are death and pain, forgetfulness and the lonely walks outside my borrowed home in the woods. You are alone, but I am on pins and needles, terrified of his inevitable fall, where I am left with nothing but his amps and his guns.
Then, would you want me?
You still have time. But I gave up a long time ago.