• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 08


There is a moment of silence
before the dance.
Lights rise, and we hold ourselves
waiting for the music to start,
for ourselves to begin.
Breath sits just out of reach, our bodies
resting with the weight of space. On
that first note we will explode into limbs
and colour and pattern, muscles trained
into shape making we could never describe
with anything other than our bodies.
Shapes that call and answer, ask and
reply. But in this not-quite-yet
I lean against you
and am known.