Outside my window, a little girl sits in a chair. Her knees are pulled up to her chest and her chin is propped up on her hands. The bright cotton of her striped pajama bottoms stand out against her pale skin, and her silken hair falls down to hide her face. If I look hard enough, I think I can see the outline of the window through her. Sometimes she’ll begin to turn, her face no longer a complete profile, but just before I can see her face she disappears. All that’s left is an empty room.

It didn’t belong to its time. There was no sign of where it came from or what it was for.

The room was hollow with silence and empty with darkness. Dust gathered within the creaking floorboards. The stage had been untouched in at least fifteen years, and had been allowed to fall into a state of disrepair.

Nobody would go looking for her here.

She tiptoed across the room, gathering speed as she chaine-d in her battered pointe shoes. She rolled her shoulders back before firmly grasping the barre and lifting her entire body weight onto her toes. The stretch of her ankles and the release of her neck emitted the last of the stresses that had previously weighed her down. For once, she was not distracted by anything other than losing herself within the music. The space was all hers. As she spun, leaped, and rolled across the floor, she could not feel anything besides her weightless body and the heavy vibrations of the classical string concerto. She was consumed by the throbbing beats and crescendoing melodies.

The floor could not even feel the touch of her harmonious winged feet. The brightness of the azure sun spotted the tides of the tune, as each of her steps bound strength to tranquil grace. At the darkest of times, stars sparkle across the clear yet dark blue-grey canvas as the night breeze whistles through harmonic wavelength curves. She tilts her head back, and her eyes graze the sky. She listens to the serene sonatas of the low breeze and thinks, “Here is Mozart descended from Heaven.” The majestic symphonies keep her spellbound, and the spirited enchantments of the great cacophony from the myriad stars guide her movements, which are as complex as the orchestrated concerto.

She undulates with rhythmic ease as the air ignites with ecstasy. As she slips through the practiced steps, she is captured by the rapturous sound.  Heartbeats stroke her skin by impetuous desire’s electrocution. Steam rises up through delirious sound, while damp, red silk caresses her skin. Immersed in a world of fevered intensity, black and white is exchanged for oblivious color. Deep crimson, vivid chartreuse, and royal amethyst are blasted one after another, an ongoing show in which onlookers exhaled in serenity. As sparks simmered and smoldered to float down to tickle her face, she marveled as seconds felt like eternity. With each cracked explosion of movement, she and her shadow stand united, soaring across onyx, as if they embodied eagles.

Her baby skin glowed baby pink as sparks of dancing flames emanated from her body. For a moment, everything was hazy and warm and smoothed over. Static electricity waltzed around her dream like the sound of salt whistling through the rolling waves, omnipresent. She may not have been the prettiest girl, but flowers blossomed in her hair and sunlight shone through her scars. Nothing but lilac scent gripped the edges of her skirt. The sweetness of sweat dripped down temples and shoelaces, flying through the musty, sable air. Thoughts twirled and leaped like ebony ink splattering her mind,. Her shadow get lost in the starless night. Thousands of floating eyes glistened and twinkled as they stared down her every move, but she danced like there was nobody watching.

As the heat of the lights flushed her cheeks, and the roar of the applause paralleled the pounding of her rhythmic heart, she suddenly tumbled down...And her body trembled as if moving through another dimension. She was shaken back to reality and she sat up with a surge of adrenaline. As her disoriented mind regained clarity, she looked out the window to see dark, gray skies. A lone, glowing streetlight shone through, and a glimpse of the light emitted from the edge of the horizon shifted into view.

She planted her feet on the cold wooden floor and forced her aching body to stand up. She repositioned herself at the window sill as her body wrapped around itself in the same familiar pose. The transparency of her shallow breath mimicked the morning dew, glistening in juxtaposition with the overcast skies. In the bitterness of cold December, the relaxation of her tense muscles is transparent through the opaque glass. Like a gypsy, her swaying movements dive and ascend to write my stories.

Her ink is my living light.