I smack my cherry cherry boom boom lipgloss,
my laughter bouncing off the hard edges,
of the ballet studio.

Light filtering through the slanted windows.
Your cheekbones are sharp against the shadows,
corner of your lips tilting upwards as well.

There are exotic Indian roots thriving inside you,
licking up your insides.

Swirl my tongue on the inside of my cheek,
examining you from an outsiders point of view,
because no one no one no one can pick you apart.

I can see you from my vantage point here in the corner,
letting the trigger of my gaze pierce you.

Suddenly.

Your fingers glide against the wooden rail,
and with a breathless gasp you fall.

Down, gravity, down.

I'm at you're side at the same time I hear the 
dull
flat
smack.

The pink of ballet ribbons are loose around your ankles,
your breathing hitched and erratic,
you are immobile,
eyes fixated on my looming figure.

I slide my palm on the shiny waxed surface until my face is
parallel with yours.

I inhale.

When I exhale, my chewing gum forms a bubble.

...Your gaze is wondering when you pop it with a sharp
fingernail.