The dance.

Making steps in the sun-warmed sand, the hair flows in the wind along with the rhythm... The beat is only of my heart and it gives enough to this whirlwind dance in this lonely place, where few snakes rattle hiding in sun-dried corners. None of the flowers stand alive. And I imitate their bloom in the heartless sun that burned it all. In only a barely see-through long red dress enfolding my body from a light fabric that dances along with my movements, like a rose blooming in a mysterious red flame that is hidden and turns around, creating sparkles. The naked body feels the flow of the fabric along the lines. Primitive tingling sensation down the spine. Create me. Create the dance. Touch the side shape of the body. A light flow of the fingers down the strings, barely touching, yet making a sound. Gasp. Breathe in the air in this heat, grasp for the water to enrich your soul, craving for each drop in this deserted land, crawling on your knees. Yet the fingers still remain on the side - the silky sensation, carefully sliding down the hip. What is this feel, this dance on hot coals barefoot, as if it was made of thorns yet remaining so soft... as the lips were made of gentlest rose petals. And the touch... So explicit. Place both hands along the sides. The inviting warmth heats up as the wind blows through the fear and it turns into passion. Spark a flame and burn. As it blooms into the whirlwind dance on the sun-warmed sand. Such a bashful feeling. Truly erotic. Not the simplicity, but the complexity. The sophistication. It's not vulgar. It's beautiful. As it's true passion. True feelings expressed in fervid flames of an efflorescent fire of the dance.