Skipping

Dear Sir, my fingertips just 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? See: this dancing urge is strong;
And you exert yourself without the force
That turns me from the others who, 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
This inner feeling that only appears
When your words work their wonders, my heart skips;
I want to dance - just with my fingertips.