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