Fingertips

Fingertips

Dear Sir, my fingertips now want to dance
Amidst the moisture you, yourself, have caused,
For if your voice must whisper without pause
Within my head, then have I any chance
Of resting while this dancing urge is strong,
And you exert yourself without the force,
That turns me from the others that, of course,
Would take me, break me and make me belong
To service their uncertainties and fears,
Without the impact that I crave within,
Where I can look and find beneath my skin
The inner feeling that only appears,
As your words work their wonders, my heart skips,
And wants to dance now with my fingertips.