Off Beat

When I close my eyes to melody

you coax yourself into the space

there between two thirds

of all the eighth and quarter notes,

and there you are in yellow

lamplight showing me

your high, plumb pitched

cheekbones,

gently tasting the inside of your own

lips,

puckered in a playful,

half kiss,

stingy to my favor,

and that dance that you’re doing—

unsure, but sexier for that

millisecond behind the beat,

still

rhythmic,

however your own,

with your shoulders rolling,

raising like two children

amusing each other in coastal waves,

and your eyes softly shut,

not quite fully blocking imagined stars

that breach the vault of our

tiny living room just for me;

no one else to watch you bump

our ancient loveseat and catch

yourself tipsy, toeing up

within my reach—

just close enough, then

spinning away

with rolled, almond eyes saying,

“Not yet.”

I watch and I smile

with the same one that I sense now,

realizing how free you must be

to do this made up dance to me.

Do I dare to breach the faith of

thoughts that move you this way,

halting imperfect pirouettes

direct contact,

your eyes,

mine;

allow need to overtake sidelong gazes,

risk robbing you of the

freedom to shake your offbeat

sexy here in our tiny space?

So, I pretend that I’m not watching.