One

It’s just one hour, one dance, 
One brief brush against goosebumps. 
Too careful, too timid to be reckless.

It’s just one.

One candlelit meal where he keeps staring at shadows. A softly arched nose, rosy apple cheeks, and an untampered divide parts swollen lips. Blue eyes gaze longingly as his calloused ring finger traces her silhouette onto white tablecloth. Locked jaw and tense forehead eventually give life to an unwitting smile.

Would shadows tell tales if uneven hands folded slowly, counting down singular temptations.

One walk in the sunset where those same colors blended in an imbalanced light just days before. An uneven gait that sways from side to side, wandering eyes pulling away from the straight and narrow. Shoulders brush and his&her toes trip over one another in choreographed sorries.

Two asymmetrical shadows overlap, steady and rhythmically, fading in and out of oneness. Would this look the same in different light?

One step after another.

His hand solicits a dance. Just one he says, and somehow his hand, with such simplicity, presses into one a little smaller, a little more delicate.

Swaying chiffon unwittingly lets slip glimpses of skin. Footwork of shiny brown oxfords challenge front lines, as red stilettos stumble in retreat. His left hand rests just above where the dress began to flare and his breath fogs up mirrors in glassy blue eyes. Just one second where clarity blurs and his forward movement propels him just one step too aggressive and the stilettos miss just one beat. And his profile fills missing shadows between trembling lips.