Dancing to Frank Sinatra

By Kate Parisi

Across the room his eyes are shining

blue as an endless see of

wishing and dreaming and hoping

that maybe one day he'll grow up

and be what he thinks he should be,

to be what his parents want,

to love how he’s supposed to love

as told by everyone else.

He wants to be an engineer--

he told me once--

but the way he said it

wasn't hopeful and dreaming

it was a hopeless dream;

a bucket list wish.

But I thought bucket lists

were supposed to be made for people

who needed something to look forward to.

Here I am thinking he has that,

here I am thinking that every person

has something to look forward to.

Here I am, wrong again.

I catch his eye from his corner seat

slouched back in a weighted way

as if the world he carries on his shoulders

is more like Jupiter than Earth.

But when our eyes meet

he looks at me like he’s just remembered

the nights we had where

talking about our futures

didn't seem like a chore, but rather

a place we could go together

where gravity wasn't gravity

and hopes were reality.

We were astronauts and cowboys,

we were firefighters and doctors and singers

and lovers and livers and we lived

in our time, our infinity, as if it was our now.

As if we could wake up tomorrow and live

how we said we could live.

It was always more fun that way.

He looks at me now like he did the first time,

the gleam in his eyes a mix of surprise

and curiosity. Of hope.

He rises from his seat and moves,

the weight of the world on his shoulders

replaced by a smattering of stardust.

His hands on mine,

holding and breathing and caring.

We danced until the sun rose again.