As I lean in, unwashed
in aftershave, I kiss your neck
gently, the barest brush of lips
on your scented neck
and I hesitate
briefly,
my breathing becomes shallow,
almost spectre like, ghost patterned
as I become intoxicated by your presence
and I leave my senses behind;
slow,
slowly
I summon the courage
to ask you
if you would like to
dance.
Ian D. Hall 2016