One, two, three

His right hand settles on your bare waistline; you flinch one inch because that grip is mine.
Polite little actress, front row seat,
Tapping your heel to my tempo's beat.
He leans right in to brush your cheek; your pulse runs hot,
Your breath gets weak.
You search the room for the words to speak; you look at him,
You think of me.
It is my name, you bite behind your teeth; you take his arm,
You count to 3, you look at him, you think of me.
Every touch you think of me.