I ascend on the podium, posture erect
A myriad pair of eyes watch me
Face warm in contrast to
Fingertips so cold
I swipe my palm across my skirt;
The wrinkles bother me,
Buckle my hands in place,
And speak
I start to speak, and, a feeling
So divine envelopes my gut
The blood in my veins dance to the
Rythym of my own voice passing through the microphone;
With every round of applause, blood
Gushes all over and
I feel my cheeks stain to a darker shade of red
Like I’m about to fall apart
My buckled hands stay put no more, and
Fingers itch to move and coordinate
With my words, get my point across the room
And when I finish, I’m left with
Just the right blend of triumph
And desire- like last time
Anticipating for the next time, for more,
The adrenaline rush makes me discover
Maybe, just maybe, my stage is my lover.

****
~Nida

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