gravity.

the cotton brushing her dirty knees, shuffling her feet across the sandpaper, she's letting her lips taste the moves and the sticky humid air of july. with each slide of skin on coarse surface, this is the moment. gliding suddenly, arms floating upwards as if gravity were foreign, she's tasted enough to feign the difference. he's watching from the corner and with each revolution, the walls are painted a brilliant red and her eyes focus in on the arch in her back. limp hair now alive, knees bending, creating shadows in the crevices, and eyelashes resting against cheeks because the color's too much. faster and faster she spins, creating constellations behind her closed lids, and somewhere she hears a harmonica. or maybe now it's a violin. or maybe it was just a cricket singing his tune. a shift here, a flow then ruffle there, smooth skin poking through, but all the while he's watching her squint her brow because she's running out of paint. the taste is diluted, and the sandpaper has turned to tar. hard to move, hard to breathe. gravity always wins in the end.