the cold air bites at

our exposed arms. we 

complain about injuries &

exhaustion & hunger,

but we chose this regardless,

again & again.

the press of the hard floor 

against elbows & knees

& ribs, the pull of muscles as 

we fall & leap & turn & soar,

this is what it feels like to

be alive. we laugh too hard 

at anything and everything; 

drunk and delirious off of 

each others company.

counts swirl around,

never reaching nine.

weaving 

up & through & under

five become one and 

many, individuality 

magnified & dissolved.

the smells of sweat & coconut

hand lotion fill the air

as we compare blisters & floor 

burns. for one shining hour a

week nothing matters but the

movement & the music.

we make our own song

clean & wild & chaotic & free.

- s.p.