A caress begins.

But a passing touch,
finger tips lingering on boundaries of sensation.
Anticipation
in the quiet breathless infinity of a moment.

The philosophers stone, long sought is found in this
an egg, the bearer and potentiator of transformation.

this moment.
this quiet,
in which rests the desire to to cast off still shadows and become a dance of skin.

The ballet begins as such,
each dancer taking her place
as lightest of touches stokes the orchestra to play. Beginning at the site where skin meets skin
the dancers dance,

spiraling skillfully from their mark weaving between nerves, and whispering softly into the lovers ears
they dance.

Twirling the length of a graceful neck.
As the small hairs bristle and stand in ovation of this,

the first act of a grand performance. The first stroke of an artists brush.