It was not the act but the feeling:

Intoxicated by the way feet glided

across our small favela, the floor almost as black as my skin.

The smooth caress of hot air gliding across my arms

Conflicting with the harsh burn of strong thighs.

Thick Brazilian hair refusing to be contained into

buns they say are necessary.

My hands lay on the rough wood, enamel long worn off,

My heart beating one word: dance.