refrigerator poem.

Her twirling hand bids night to jump, spring, and twirl.
Lights flash as the moon chases her swinging hips as his eyes scan for her across the room.
But she hardly cares.
Nothing matters--no more worries, no more enemies.
Just the bass pumping through her body like adrenaline before a race,
Daring her to take new steps outside the concrete walls of her comfort zone.
The arms that were once glued to her back now turn circles in the air,
With the night bidding her along.
Are people watching?
Are people judging?
Do people noticing her frizzy, sweaty hair?
But more importantly, does she care?
No.
Because finally, she is free from commitment, trends and labels.
Free from you, free from this time.
So just dance.