Chinatown Bridge

Brown and peach sit on my diaphragm as I float above my crossing.

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I just ask that as I make my way through the thick and supple shadows, that I cross into a fiery dance hall where passion balloons and thrives to symphonize both parties into dancers of passion, bringing them into not just a world of bliss and pleasure, but a world of freedom.

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A world of light.

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The flames of sexuality scream as the dancers move with a subtle beauty, letting passion be the name of the night.

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The dancers embrace the passion with respect and honor and become fire.

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The fire meets the sky, sending a split down the middle of its body, causing the fire to separate into two tails curling and falling away from each other only to spear their way back into each other, forming a momentary bridge just before hitting the ground.

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The fire begins to cool and sighs out its deed of passion closing the ceremony with gray, blue, and black embers outlining the dancers into a sleep of truth.

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