No Moves

You laugh at the face I make when the boys call me ma’am.
I tell you stories of the ex-boyfriend who can’t stop drunk dialing me.
We eat ham and lettuce wraps with way too much mustard,
but it’s never enough mustard, and you offer me mints when we’re done.
We talk about leaving, about escape, about winter.
You try your damnedest to get me to dance right there in front of everyone,
but I can’t do it no matter how many times you ask.
No matter how many times you dance right on into me, trying to share the rhythm.
It’s not that I don’t want to or that I can’t or that I’m embarrassed.
Okay, maybe I am just a little bit embarrassed. Still, that’s not why.
I don’t dance because that’s my last resort, my holdout, my mystery.
That’s all I can do to keep your intrigue all to myself for another moment, another day.
Your persistence and shy laughter are all I’ve got left to claim.
I don’t dance because you want me to, and that’s as close as I’m gonna get
to you wanting me.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s