40

Night is incomparably expansive, an endless embrace. Pleasure river creeps between the pages and pulls them up over their head.

Holding your breath? Let it out.

This is not all what I meant to say, but she the storm won’t let me forget that other part of the story. We froze in our paradise embrace, knowing the rage was directed at us. Friendship of bell and light, of night and dark, bright pool, of moon and bed.

The torn flesh heals from its incisive inscription into writing; the scar tissue is the text that much be approached with great tact. The way he looked leaping up to catch a fire in that ultimate game. Darkness and pallor, that is who you were to me, a leaping cold fire in the blaze of night.

Cracked open by desire.

Pain is redundant, who has time for it?