The burn hits her throat, allowing her taste buds to dance in disgust.
It fascinates her.
The lime sitting ever so precariously.
The ballerina bartender.
She misses the old. The young and innocent and carefree.
The pain of the burn doesn't lessen a second time.
She feels light.
The world may be staying still but she isn't.
Her throat is the desert, and the music the water.
If only she can feel like this every day.
This sort of freedom does exist.
Let it consume her.
She thrives with every shake of her hip.
For a small moment the world barely registers.
It's the kind of world she sees herself living for all of eternity.