We danced in the street, they gave us
loud music, turned up to the max.
Salted blood from eardrums, from the nose.
It ran rich, burning across the chest.
And we danced harder and harder.
You drew closer and closer.
Increasingly crowded into the loneliness of
our breaths like a handkerchief, like a glove.
...Only her face was pale.
Hotter, sweatier still,
I grabbed her fingers and waist
and with a gesture not my own,
tore away her transparent dress, undressed her.
How wild!
Here is the velvet skin.
Here is the subsoil arriving in December.
Here is her breast lit by
music cutting into flesh.
The erection met with wonder!
It was of electric beauty.
We were the frightened dancers of the street,
slipping on blood that ebbed and spoke...
We were alive—small, so small, at least a minute—
dancing our part.
My dancing body
entered her cold, calm, pale, perfect,
and the blood covered the music slowly, carefully.
# Dancers They move like water through the room, their bodies fluent, speaking a language older than words— the grammar of grace, the syntax of limbs. See how they turn, how the air parts for them like a curtain, how their shadows on the wall keep perfect time with the music. Their feet know secrets the floor has never told anyone else: the weight of longing, the lightness of letting go, the pivot point where sorrow becomes song. They are writing with their bodies what the heart cannot say— that we are all falling, always, and the only redemption is to fall together, to fall with such precision, such deliberate grace, that it looks like flying. Watch them— how they find each other in the dark, how they balance on the edge of exhaustion and ecstasy, how they transform the mundane space into a temple of movement. When they finally still, breathless, glistening, they leave behind a residue of light, proof that we are more than flesh, that the body remembers what the mind forgets: how to be alive.
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