our dance

we danced in stares
the mystic mist of gestures and intentions
rearranging the silence from awkward to familiar
brush my hands against yours and you would hold it the same
tomorrow
an invitation for another lingering bide
until i reached out to bridge the space
briefly but significant
and you never withdrew, not a flicker of doubt
not a flinch or false alarm
but that’s all it was
a space filled with my attempt
not exchange by your means
not even a refund of anger and guilt
you played the strings of my heart
i danced to the beat of chronic secrets in your eyes
as you let your gaze fall into mine

© simon whittle — from lovers’ tiff: a ballad

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