rekindling

That distinctive intro blasts
from the ballroom doors, strings hopping
over syncopated electric bass, rock drums
in a simple progression, echoing off convention
center walls and wildly colored hotel carpets
to lodge in my chest with that tender ache, nostalgia.

I always hated dances. Avoided them usually, sweated
through them when I had a date to put my arms
around, hand on the bare skin between shoulder blades
in that shuffling teenage sea of angst, fear (loneliness),
naivete, insecurity, and desire.

Through the doors I glimpse the ladies, forty-somethings,
decked out, gabbing loudly and trotting out decades-old
dances, drawing open that window to feel again
what once they felt so electrically that it has been forever
burned into their being.

They will never be old. We
will never be old. The melody of youth
will remain etched in our essence, reminding us
of that intense rawness that fades, but not beyond
occasional temporary rekindling.