Friday, January 26, 2007
You see his eyes when you see anything at all.
The near darkness sculpts you. You arch to fill its roundness.
He follows. You urge him, and he follows. When he strays, your gasps flutter. He knows the shape of your lies.
A breath quivers in the hairs of your skin. He sweeps into curves you never trust, but he sings them like a sacrament.
His steadiness is the knife. You slice yourself, and the blood rushes in.
Not a wound. A fatal deliverance.
And you have so longed to die.
Posted by jason evans at 12:05 AM