She flops all her spine's length to hang one arm down his shoulder which in no time at all is the destination of her leap, her lift. Her pink tutu subsides from its speaking part. He secures her, upholds her. In the deep high curve of her arms she holds him. A moment they hesitate, the swirled leaves of her gauzes stilled. A moment they are together what they are exalted to and we rise out of our shadows, the deep high curve of her arms the parentheses that contain us.