Once a spellbinding effect

It's a curious thing, this feeling,
that after all these years,
I've finally grasped him,
almost, just almost,
adequately.

No, I don't sprint,
like a fool,
toward his call,
or tune in to his latest podcast.
I stand back,
reserved,
when he showers me with compliments,
even if they drip from the most sensual,
deep, velvety voice,
that could melt the coldest heart.

I forgive his quirks,
his awkward attempts to sync with me,
bridging the chasm of our generations.
He seems too simple,
a puzzle I’ve solved,
to still surprise,
to still attract.

Yet, he’s one of a kind,
a peculiar, aging neurotic,
a shy smile,
rare, beloved,
a treasure in my heart.

I remember him,
a reckless raver,
an ageless messiah,
writhing to the eternal beats,
of Frankie Knuckles,
Jungle Crew,
a hypnotic dance,
a spellbinding effect.

I could watch for hours,
his lean, steep hips,
his graceful, flexible hands,
a body that danced,
a soul that soared,
briefly escaping its shell,
hovering above us,
in a realm untouched by time,
in the heavenly first wave of Chicago house.

In those moments,
forgetting himself,
in the ecstasy of sound,
he was closest to his true self.
This is how I truly knew him,
this is how I fell,
seriously,
head over heels.

Years drifted by,
the fire of raver madness dimmed,
now he spins vinyls,
a mechanical ritual,
a moment of acceptance,
a humility before adulthood.

Do I want to remember him young,
a little irritated,
caustic, sharp-tongued,
a snapshot of the late 90s?
Yes, why not.
I love him,
no matter the years.

And even three decades later,
nothing has shifted.
Now, the hysterical delight,
has given way to calm,
a perception of an endless romance,
a tale with a bit unhappy ending.

[2025]