Sharp turns,
Bright smile,
Pointed feet,
Beautiful face,
Tall posture,
Straight arms,
Technique.
"It's all about the technique."
They said.
Constantly. Screams in my
ear.
Doubts of skill,
of capabilities.
"Hair up, watch the posture!"
Whispers in the corner.
Judges, teachers,
watching my every skin.
Old shoes,
grey in colour,
worn-out,
blood-stained,
exhausted.
Two injuries to the leg,
A forced smile,
A lust for sunsets.
Wrapped the shoes in
bandages.
Enough,
for the grand
finale.
Carried by the wind,
two strong arms, brown in
colour, defined.
Up, and up I go.
Look up, chin up, fingers up.
Like an angel.
"Move the hands sharply.
With the music.
Relaxed, yet strong."
Down I go, back to the chest.
A face, two eyes, brown lips.
Tall posture, hands meet,
Pirouettes, Assemblé, Plié.
Stop.
Turn to look,
fall in love.
Grande Jeté. Tour en l'air.
A Pas de deux. In perfect sync.
He looks past me. Past my eyes,
past my soul.
I stare at him. Directly. Entering his
very orbit. Exploring the chocolate of
his orbs.
Relishing his scent, the drops of sweat
dripping from his brow.
Back down I fall.
A final Panché.
Staring up, leaning
towards him.
Him. Staring at another.
In a closet, while I,
savour the bitterness
of a Pas de deux.
