Chalky Throat

and though the embers are new, whatever you do, just don't let the fire die

From slapping sinew to cracking degrees, she pirouetted like a swan across the hollow stage. Her trailing ribbon of aquamarine sequins floated above her head as her chalky skirt and opalescent arms diced the air in swift precision. Dredged in rosy daydream, stuck in an aquarium, the auditorium of Gothic Orchestra sang no song but the dance of October. The spines of thousands and thousands of books have graced the tip of her fingers. She couldn’t see; her eyeglasses were missing and her head was tumbling and her heart was crashing to her feet and oh 
                           God oh God someone please catch me–

Catch! Caught. I-She caught herself, found her heart, and then twirled some more. Composure. She watched her shaking fingers tickle the ghosts, lavishing them with secrets to keep. She felt diaphanous, so naked in the two or three stage lights. When she’d breathe, she’d swallow an ocean. She could already feel the overwhelming bedlam of the crowd, the cheer not so collective. She had swallowed a fire, wanting to give up, but nothing. Nothing but a nauseating rollercoaster on life. She tripped – almost broke – on her own feet. She followed traces. She followed ghosts. She followed embers. Trying to swallow, then swallowed, couldn’t choke, will not choke. 

She was better than this, still.