So smooth, I could wear it like a glove, a glove made for
one large finger, fitting into a moist place where I might drown if I remain
there too long, the longer I linger the more the scent consumed me, rising up
as if our of a fog, making me drunk more surely than wine. I feel the whole
world move when I slip my finger – which is not a finger – into that glove that
is not a glove, feeling the swell rise around me, reception, we designed to fit
exactly like this, the shudder of a quake that rocks us both, smooth, fragrant,
moist, drawing me in, until I am gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment