He watches her as she walks and
tries not to stare,
but she glides with a certain grace
at a particular pace
that barely disturbs the air.
And he, standing next to her,
feels cumbersome and dull.
He watches, afraid to ask
exchanging furtive glances
that skip and dance past the question
that hangs stubbornly
from the tip of his tongue, leaving
his eyes to ask that which
his lips won’t pass.
She says she’s a dancer, and he
believes it to be true; it’s like she’s
still performing every time she moves.
He wonders how he can interest her
and take her back to his room…
And still he watches while his mind paces
and hesitates too long as the moments