At the last school dance I held you closer
than I should. I wasn’t versed in moppet

just then: with shoulders slouching, with moister
on our lips, with each faint but deliberate

brush we made against our hips. Puberty
remains a foreign language but that itch

that you felt is still in me — I’m itchy
like that all the time. Every throb and twitch

when the body wants something too awkward
to ask for. Lust without satisfaction

is still lust and lust is good … even when
songs end, lights come on and shy and flustered

you go to rejoin your friends. I’m smitten,
you think, and I’ll never feel this again.