Follow

It's what my heart longs to do.

It's that tugging feeling.

You know, that lump in your throat.

It's that beautiful space where a woman and man join hands on the dance floor.

Brief smiles exchange as hands intertwine.

The rhythm begins.

And she knows.

She just knows.

To follow.

The press-rest of his hands on the small of your back.

{gliding & turning}

Filling up the place called floor.

The beautiful melody is but the presence of his fingers.

Lying behind you.

A marionette to the tendons that run down your legs.

And you do as he says.

Even though he says nothing at all.

Onlookers sense it.

The magic between you.

The swirls and whirls are beliefs far beyond the now.

And well before yesterday was even a reality.

Yes, I long to.

For a leading lady is quite rude.

On the dance floor among other things.

So I will sequester my urges to do and to go.

In so many facets under the sun.

Instead, I will tousle my hair back.

Fresh washed and long.

I will straighten my shoulders and ready my smile.

As he is here.

To lead.

Me.

And I will follow.

.mac :)

(photo: the place where I married my husband 8 years ago. the boys: ours.)