Black smoke

This is what I see when I watch you dance.

Black wisps of smoke. Curling in the dark of night. As they flutter and curve in the transient breeze of your spins, they paint a picture against your ankles as they settle down.

Like the ashes of a dying campfire, black tendrils of near nonexistent smoke whisper, caresses your skin as you spin and spin and spin into your oblivion.

And when the music fades away, the smoke ebbs and I remember its just a skirt.