When she dances, she leaves this world behind.
She flows across the living room, water taking on a form of its own. Music drifts around her, controlling her movements. Every twist, every turn, is perfect. Her body knows the music, considers it a lover. Even with the studious movements, there’s a passion beneath the skin. She flows like water but is fueled by fire. Passion contained only by her skin, stretched over the flames, threatens to engulf her with each pirouette.
Personifying her blaze of passion, fire falls to her shoulders. It glints in the sunset’s rays that barely lights the apartment. The hair fluttered around her face and neck, some sticking to her lips. Lips fixed with the stubbornness she uses to survive outside her music. Ruby in the low light, her lips are full and womanly. They pop against the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her nose sits softly, turning up just barely at the tip.
Muscles squeeze and release with ease. She is light through the air but her movements are solid. A dancer’s form infused with iron. Arms sing through the air in time with the beat. The tank top hugging her torso leaves nothing to be in the way. Dance pants cling to the curve of her hips down to her ankles, securing themselves there. . Instead of leeching from her beauty her clothing keeps focus on her, her movements, her passion, and her body.
Skin flushes rose as the dance continues. Skin meets carpet with whispers of strain on the fibers. Fingertips almost brush the ceiling when she curvets through the air. Delicateness falls from each digit and pours from her heart to cascade from each orifice. Under the porcelain she lets herself become in music, she is stone. Strong as steel, cold as ice, she lives her solitary life. Nothing reaches her world. Her eyes never open; she’s on another plane of existence while the music guides her.