I stumbled, she planted,
her muscles tight as she rose.
The overheads buzzed with
lazy electricity,
their soft light
glistening off the
glaze of her skin.
She traced old, practiced
calligraphy across the
scarred floorboards.
The hot air cooled
when she drew it in,
her lungs stinging as
her chest swelled.
I swayed, she stuck,
the softness of her skin
giving way to the
steel of her muscles.
She glided past me,
the tips of her fingers
brushing the hairs
upright on the back
of my neck.
Entranced, I watched her
become the air, filling the
room as she swept
across the floor.
Again she rose, blossoming,
delicately balancing
petals atop her hands.
As she held her position,
her knees bent,
her elbows up,
she caught my gaze as
her eyes surveyed
the studio, and
I stumbled.