Phase #5

phase3

She lactates as my head goes down. Experiences submerged. Questions unanswered as her milk collects between us. Bedsheets soaked. Passion unhindered by passing storms and salivating delight. She washes in the shower as a million stones gather around her waist, joining the orbit of lifeless men and insects that have been there before. Cold evening. Breeze beneath the door, flowing gently. Roses in a broken vase on the floor. Pressed within the pages of a book, a thousand surface scars of teenage panic attacks lingers always. Promise me you’ll never leave, then slip out through the window instead. Painted toe nails, and hands around your ankles. Conceived whilst coated in sugar and wine. Veins of molten magma, pumping from my hips to yours. Deceased linguistics, no words only the indentations I place on your neck. Light sensitivity. Chemical disturbances in the dust. Slashed paintings and the dresses you wore as a girl. All those boys. Those uncomfortable memories of smeared honey teasing and picking with every beat of your dulled heart. Hardened breasts. Muffled silence. Sucking nipples, and the fluid that nature knows only too well. Tick-tock clock. Fingers around my cock. Tighter and tighter, and never let go. Days of squashed butterflies and the scent of digital machines. Floating. Evaporating. Sacred like fear, and as beautiful as the tears you cried in my arms. In darkness, rain comes down. Closeness. Togetherness. Cleansed by filtered truth, and eradicated by guilt. Earth under your nails, and organic matter dripping from your lips. Birds, no birds. No animals, only remorse. Slow moving particles as you fall apart. Kisses cleansed by the need to be torn by as many hands as possible. Glaciers as strands of your hair stretch from my lips to the distant crowns of mountains. Lazarus sweet Lazarus. Numb from too many faces. Emotionally withdrawn as pain recedes like tides of oil. Carved and saturated. Distilled as faith floats like leaves around your bare feet. Autumn. Secluded. Echoes of your breathing, reduced in the early hours. In a place they’ll never find us, you turned on your side and silently screamed. My hands on yours, there’s no way of saving us. There’s just no chance.

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