There are people watching us.
We don't quite fit here,
decades too young,
dancing with another young woman.
We might as well be under a spotlight.
The music is bronze gold and swirls
like a barrier between us, in our little clear space,
and the watchers' eyes.
Her crinkly dress swirls about her calves,
my slacks and aubergine shirt are clinging just slightly with sweat.
Our feet are just that little half-step out of tune,
off the rhythm but perfectly in sync with each other.
We make a spectacle.
Us, whose fingertips just barely touch.
Nothing more than fingertips on a wrist.
Her fingers in my loose hair, but nowhere else,
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