And if I place a crowbar in your hands?

Pretty teeth tear and tease. Old flesh will fall away like a new dress. New flesh will yield like spreading thighs, like sure hands guiding me in. Organic machinery. Hypertransitional. Our eyes. Future perfect past tense.

Elegant like the lines of her body. Watching the way we move. Inside and out. Smile like the sea, her undertow dragging. I want to drown. Inside a fire is burning like starlight in her eyes.

Tesseract winged crows picked at our berryselves. Not yet ripe but still juicy just like....On the shores, inside her conch shell it all slowed to a stop. Breathe in. Don't blink; it's not over yet.

Slow hands ask the question. Soft lips mark it. Turtleneck. Straight razor. Bleach. The end draws nigh like a warm shawl around a lovers neck. Documents. Keys. We hold nothing in the psalms of our hands.