She reacts to his wasp stings by tightening and turning over, doesn’t say much but projects her desire that he keep his lips where they came from, leaving him agape with three options. He could overpower her, pressure or ponder her motives, and he chooses the latter, contemplating her reactions. This woman who shares a bed with him but never bares any more. And he mimics her turning, facing the other direction, projecting with just enough flare that he might cause her some despair, but she doesn’t come calling. Both silently crying, their bodies on that bed, like two heavy fortresses separated by an empty field. A heart torn at the middle so that the skin peeled back.
(((((I cant think of a title)))))
1 comment:
Update please, sir.
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