We Waltz around our words together
which is a familiar past time
ringing prominent in my hands.
Draping over my chest,
holding onto my dignity and
carefully allowing a new chapter to
be created before me.
I think I sway and shuffle.
You... maybe a Salsa,
and we somehow meet in the middle on rhythm
for a moment until continuing
our own solo y sola.
This is something we speak not on,
it only lays at our feet to decide for itself
when to peak.
I wanna know what your skin feels like
without touching you.
I don't know what I am
other than what I feel.
And who are you in this world?
You must exist beyond this realm
-you told me of the iridescence in your dreams.
How dessert fell right in front of you
for one reason or another
and you were open to the taking.
Your nerves have exposed themselves.
We have been rearranged into a position
to ask for permission.
And yes, baby, we have the permission slip
right in my hand.
All you gotta do is grab it.
You will then have permission
to give me slow hands (if they're clean).
Let me feel your grown out hair on my stomach,
or your caress at my kneecap.
Stroke my toes how you wish
and play with my fuzz
that won't fit in a ponytail.
This moment hasn't happened.
These happenings are shy and stuffed
under our sleeves
for no one to see until
the sleeves are not worn.
~Tina Meeks
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