Slow Dance

How I see it:

We stand close,
not Swayze-Grey close,
but not as far apart
as a couple eighth graders
with hands on fact-finding missions
of each others shoulders.
Our hands are clasped,
fingers interlocked
or maybe not.
I say something
witty and charming,
I hope,
because I need
to make you smile.
A smile that rumbles through your chest,
dances over your lips
and ends with a burst of light in your eyes.
I hope
(there I go again)
that light doesn't fade,
but it will.
It always does.
Like the music, or
the late September sun
scattering rays through the open barn
saying its daily goodbyes.
Until then
we just sway
our hands clasped,
fingers interlocked
or maybe not.