You are breathless, listening hard.
Don't breathe or you'll miss it,
the soft murmur of her feet kissing the air.
The dancer is quick and lithe,
her movements chaotic as she twists and turns;
like a ninja in the night,
almost completely silent;
her satin shoes barely touching the cold floor.
There is something about her scent,
as she leaps by, a pixie without wings.
A strange perfume,
maybe a wildflower,
like the one that grows on a cactus,
or maybe even a cactus itself,
watery and sweet,
quenching the dry staleness in your throat,
wetting the cracked remains of your desperate lips.
The perfume is something else though,
as if the scent has a violent side,
jabbing thorns in your esophagus as it fights its way back up stream;
anything to be free.
It is an electric shock from a livewire you can't let go of.
It is a sharp rusty razor biting into delicate skin.
It is tantalizing;
enough for you lean forward to catch another whiff.