It's a sense of longing
that goes beyond the feel
of canvas cradling toes
and the soft worn wood
of a barre under fingertips
or the tight, elastic pressure
of a black and pink covering
the sweet salty sting of sweat on skin
and scuffed floors squeaking out turns
wall to wall mirrors echoing steps
the rise and fall of piano of a piano melody
and the steady beat of landing feet
the foreign, made up language mix
of numbers and French and shouted triumphs.

It's the pull of a faraway place
where nothing matters but right now;
where you are in space and how far up
does your hand reach and what on earth
is your face doing?
And can you land on either foot
without falling to the ground,
and if you fall can you make it look
as though you're meant to be there?