What keeps us standing and not a pile of bones? Is it air
or water or muscle? I let it out sometimes, slowly, like a gas fuse. But I know I won’t blow. I just like the smell, like underground car parks: the rubber and gasoline. A dizzy spell like those in the movies but in real life there’s no fall. Maybe tears and lights too bright, but the string is tight. I sway and hope the friction from my feet isn’t enough to set the whole house on fire. Dance with me and the friction between us can’t be a match if there isn’t enough gas left to
explode.