Hover

Do you ever hang in place?
A languid breath squeezed from my pores,
Like the air in a late-August day,
Not yet captured by yours.

I see you navigate each whirlpool, free;
You have never needed my graces.
They seem less like bodies to me,
Their twisting hands and smiling faces.

If I twist the knob and fuel my escape above the fray?
Then I might come to you and we both might float away.