Guilty Feet

Guilty Feet

My lady loves to dance.

I don’t.

Well, not at least until I’ve had enough vodka to forget I don’t like to dance, and then I’ll cut a two-step or even do the wop…I’m old school. It’s just not my thing, I’ve never really dug the club or party scene, it really conflicts with my personality.

My lady loves to dance.

I don’t.

But I love to watch her on the floor; she really comes alive, almost as if the music transports her to another place, she loses herself in the rhythm. Seeing her body maneuver to the music, under the lights, it makes me want to join her.

My lady loves to dance.

I don’t.

These guilty feet won’t allow me. They tap to the bass, point themselves in the direction of the dance floor, but their too nervous to really get down. They never bring me closer to grabbing her hand and heading to the floor.

My lady loves to dance.

I don’t.

Salsa. R&B. Club. Hip-Hop. It doesn’t matter, she doing to dance. I stand still, capturing the silence of her beauty amongst the noise of the music and the people. There’s no one else there in my mind, but I still don’t dance. Yet, my Dancing Lady keeps on dancing, she keeps on turning, her hips keep swaying. She never stops smiling. Me either.

My lady loves to dance.

I don’t.

But for our first dance…I will.