Shimmering like confetti. Glimmers of anticipation fizz. Bubbles swallow through clinking glass. Thumps echo. A lick of lipstick, a spritz of something fresh and citrusy; a tug of a thong.

Tiny circles swell and blanket as frosty drafts wash over our bareness.

Armoured with amyl, we ascend.

A cluster of bodies, of celestial masses. Of blind stories and forgotten memories. Of throbbing pulses within. Beats that bounce through us; bouncing inside you and bouncing inside me. Guided by clasped fingers. Dragged along lapping limbs. Holding on tight, as our slick tips extend and bind. Amidst the fog and coloured strobe, we chisel our enclave within.

The dampness is so potent I can taste it. This slimy mucus. These fleshy walls that swallow you whole. You become the dancefloor, unencumbered and uninhibited. The dancefloor becomes you, you morph and you move. Tender overlap.

You become the dancefloor, even when you leave and the sounds only ring inside you, and the wetness is only traced on you.

Traces of a place. Ever-shifting, to you, with you. In flux, awaiting another waltz.

I often think of myself and the dancefloor as existing in an unrequited relationship, one that remains only in that space, their space. But really, doesn't love extend beyond space? Aren’t the effects of love limitless? Not tethered to the occurrence? Perhaps we exist in a multiplicity of states; pre-dancefloor, dancefloor and post-dancefloor. Perhaps all these states overlap, and in some ways are the same, but are separate nonetheless.

The pre-dancefloor state is pre-sweat, but not pre-thirst.
The appetite is always wet and open, ready to devour.
We share, laugh, talk, cheer and we kiss through our tales.
It’s the same during and post-dancefloor too.

We check for our tickets and our small plastic cards. Crossing eyes and fingers, we pray on flickers through the muffled thumping inside, beckoning us below.

I love the dancefloor state; I love its grimy, sticky floors that you have to peel your feet from. I love the tongues that pierce one another. I love the scent of sweat. I love the tension so thick you can feel it pushing you side to side. This crush is a chasm, a sentient space that is forever waiting. A tactility that bonds together; a tactility of tongues, of whispers.

A tactility of flirting; flirting with the floor, flirting with a sip, a kiss, a confession in the bathroom.

Flirting with the idea of never leaving.

The post-dancefloor state is one enamoured by bliss. Wet and dripping. Sodden from the movements that cease to exist as they were created. Sweaty stains of rapture; trails and traces indicative of this succumbing to the floor. The post-dancefloor state is breathless and stretching, reaching out for a final kiss, clink and clasp goodbye. A tender tryst of sharing and release, hearts in mouths.

We leave with tessellations of touching embrace etched within, infinite ribbons of togetherness that bound in swooping knots. 

We dance for hours, it doesn’t matter if it is good or bad. It only matters that we don’t stop.

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