the secrets that are shared, texted late into the night, two adults, like teenagers, expressing fears of aging bodies, craving intimacy, emotional connection, in a life where there is none. forbidden by convention, drawn by desire, love has no age, no restrictions.
how can we be so close, intimate, but never touching, other than as students, practicing steps at a studio. when we touch, fingers linger, holds extend, bodies innocuously pressed together. there is a tension, never verbalized, an intention, signaled subtly, waiting for a reaction, courage, ebbing flowing, hands daring, waiting for a reprimand, that never comes. when words fail, my touch says everything, your body tells me so.
where is the point of no return when friends become lovers, when we share more than feelings, when touch is intentional, pleasing, satisfying, expressed openly.
it is a dangerous game we play, involving others, oblivious to our foreplay, guilty bystanders to our indiscretion.
living in the moment, aware of the consequences and aftermath, is the danger worth the hurt, why i am doing this, i already know the answer. of all the women to pursue, i choose you, because i can not have you.
how will it end, will we be found out, will you tire of me, what feelings will be left, when the novelty is gone, will the love remain, friendship linger, will we ever talk again, the power of love lies with the one that loves the least.
we are lovers in all but name.