Senses to See
I can see the notes when I move, feel the weight of the music on my shoulders, she would always say. Her words sounded so cryptic, like she didn’t want anyone to know why she continued to dance. She spoke of tasting her angles, and hearing her footprints; of inhaling the music, and just sensing as she danced. Poetry came out of her mouth like dance would come out of her body, discordant yet natural-oh-so befitting of a girl like her.
Perhaps, that was what intrigued him. It wouldn’t be the way she would hurt herself, sometimes almost so painfully that he would cringe himself; wouldn’t be her laughter as she changed and would accidentally press down on a bruise; it wouldn’t even be the way she danced, so fluid but so harsh, almost as if it were forced. No, it would be the way she proved every bit of her words as she danced in front of the mirror; when there wasn’t music, and she would just dance to the words that came out of her mouth. Lips of angels, ashen and grey, was her favourite thing to say. Her legs would give out almost gracefully, and her hands would come up to her throat-fingers inching up to the back of her throat until it reached her hair, and she pulled. She would wail dramatically, inhale the humid air, listen for the scratch her nails make against her scalp, pause for a few seconds then smile, one hand caressing her face as the other would travel down her torso. Yet with eyes so bright, envied by Day.
Then there were days where he would be there simply for her, not to dance. He would be dressed for school, sitting by the door, watching her dance, and these days were his favourite. She would dance to music; melancholic, but beautiful nonetheless. He would close his eyes, and would imagine them performing a fish dive lift to the track. He would imagine whispering pleasantries into her ear, and her giggling foolishly before falling to the floor in a heap of limbs. But that was a dream.
There were days when he would sit at the door, watching her dance alone despite the large space. He would itch to dance with her, to beg her to allow him to join; and when the urges would get too strong, he’d return to his much smaller studio, knapsack hanging by the light switch. He would try to dance to the thought of her, try to imagine her laugh, high-pitched and comforting, performing cabrioles to the memory, fouetté to the smell of her sweat-but everything was technical and so robotic and so precise that it reminded him nothing of her; then he would shout in frustration, but the walls wouldn’t be able to catch it.
I can feel you, she said once, commanding voice echoing in the room. She was looking at him, but she wasn’t-and he replied, but he didn’t.
Perhaps, that was what intrigued him. It wouldn’t be the way she would hurt herself, sometimes almost so painfully that he would cringe himself; wouldn’t be her laughter as she changed and would accidentally press down on a bruise; it wouldn’t even be the way she danced, so fluid but so harsh, almost as if it were forced. No, it would be the way she proved every bit of her words as she danced in front of the mirror; when there wasn’t music, and she would just dance to the words that came out of her mouth. Lips of angels, ashen and grey, was her favourite thing to say. Her legs would give out almost gracefully, and her hands would come up to her throat-fingers inching up to the back of her throat until it reached her hair, and she pulled. She would wail dramatically, inhale the humid air, listen for the scratch her nails make against her scalp, pause for a few seconds then smile, one hand caressing her face as the other would travel down her torso. Yet with eyes so bright, envied by Day.
Then there were days where he would be there simply for her, not to dance. He would be dressed for school, sitting by the door, watching her dance, and these days were his favourite. She would dance to music; melancholic, but beautiful nonetheless. He would close his eyes, and would imagine them performing a fish dive lift to the track. He would imagine whispering pleasantries into her ear, and her giggling foolishly before falling to the floor in a heap of limbs. But that was a dream.
There were days when he would sit at the door, watching her dance alone despite the large space. He would itch to dance with her, to beg her to allow him to join; and when the urges would get too strong, he’d return to his much smaller studio, knapsack hanging by the light switch. He would try to dance to the thought of her, try to imagine her laugh, high-pitched and comforting, performing cabrioles to the memory, fouetté to the smell of her sweat-but everything was technical and so robotic and so precise that it reminded him nothing of her; then he would shout in frustration, but the walls wouldn’t be able to catch it.
I can feel you, she said once, commanding voice echoing in the room. She was looking at him, but she wasn’t-and he replied, but he didn’t.