Won’t you be more tender?

The weight of your hand
in the small of my back
reminds me why,
when we were younger,
we stood awkwardly on either
side of the parish hall
with its squeaky plastic floor.
Jostling one another and laughing
or scuffing old tennis court markings
and staring sheepishly at our feet.
Trying to work up the courage
to ask you to dance.

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