Hurricane.

You play your body like a hurricane.
Never quite touching, but such movement in great force,
I'm only watching, not permitted
To dance with you.
Confined by stone and glass and chains of secrets bound by the broken lock on your door.
The creek of the bedpost.
The expensive car parked in the drive, that screams of
Mistreated, "Neglected daughter lives here."

So I watch you move, dance in quiet.
Never making a sound but I wonder,
If I could take you some place else,
Lay down with you,
Help you undress.

And patterns fall to the ground.
Torn jeans,
Where soft skin shines through.
Like an innocent
White-feathered bird, who never flies in the rain.
And the dress you take off,
"T-shirt" in its style and taste
Perfectly reveal,
The tease of your breasts.

Black lace
You knew I was coming,
And wanted me to
see the way it feels so smooth.
Running your hands across fabrics
That I have to recall from memory
While your body and the colours
Are imprinted there too.

And you ask me simply
What can I do,
Or shall,
To see more.

And I ask back bluntly,
If you dance alone.
And if you smile and laugh
That we should make movements in places,
And forgo your innocence
With the rest of the clothes.