I Think You Have The Right To Write All You Want To Write

Dancing in that gym, you feel sixteen again. Because there's a spark. Something purely electric that happens in meeting the warmth of her hand. You can't do swing to save your life, and you can barely follow the tune. But her hand is soft, and her eyes says she doesn't mind. "Follow me," and you do. Lose her eyes to track her feet: closed toed shoes, mahogany, only the suggestion of a heel. She's twice your age, and you don't care. Meet her. Learn her name. Find her dark cool eyes next time as you hold her, with a skill you spent all week building. Let only her know this part of you.