Dame de la Danse

 Waltzing with an air unbreathable by most, spreading rose-scented perfume across the ballroom with her invisible partner. She dances silently, four inch heels without sound on marble flooring.

She is but a ghost amidst the others. A baby pink dress just above the knee, hair tightly pulled back in a bun, she dances. Twirling and bending and moving like no one else is even there. She is but a ghost to us, we are only ghosts to her.

A tender instep walking toward them, a group of people not feet away. She takes her time strolling over, finally spotting her prey. She does not harm them, she only talks, a deep and dulcet tone emanating from vocal cords unseen.

Baby pink shoes four inches tall, she rises above most men who stand six feet. She is tall on her own, that woman of the dance, yet she is invisible to those who do not watch for her.

Porcelain arms raise swan-like above her head, lithe body moving with the pulse of every cello's sound. With skin and bones her only protection, she glides through others with a ghost like beauty.

She is woman, lady, dutchess of the dance. She moves with no one but her own momentum, its push and pull acting as her only partner in this art. Twirling and bending and never breaking to a point where this becomes just a dream to her.

She is woman, lady, dutchess of the dance.

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