Wallflower

On the edge she sits, a frail nonentity; neither bloom nor spirit, nor secure identity, as forlorn and shy she trembles, a man asks her to dance, she must decline. Stuck in a bubble, just missing the boat, floating past maybes, a lump in her throat, she dawdles and dangles, an inch from forever, a chance to break open, but opting for never. One day she will make it, step into the limelight, and pirouette daintily, taking his hand, there'll be no more jitters or lame-brain excuses just confident two-steps in time with the band. What a relief to be one of a legion of movers and shakers who're down from the shelf, gliding with grace while avoiding another's toes, hugging her partner instead of herself.