She undresses herself to the perpetuating tune. The offset of the offbeats, running ripples in soundwaves through heatwaves. There is an aridness to the room she stands in. Her clothes fall like landslides from her velvet flesh, though were loose to begin with.
A pair of eyes, glancing to riveting nudity. A man sees a moment for a viper, to be the fangs buried in the vulnerability. The trust she expects is amiable and admirable. Her surroundings are whitewashed and vapid, while drawn to the expert’s stroke of a brush along to create, for a viewer’s sake, painful streams of portraiture and vacant urns. Her own eyes, her look of sadness; there is a weight in her from an emptied safe. It yet holds weight, even while her screams will come to soar a perfused form.
Gliding forth as the freed, encaged bird in a pair of arms that wrap as both bandages and curtains. She is freed – thrown; she is drowned – burned. Pierced. The heart before the flesh. Her eyes close to look up. In darkness and in pleasure, while feathers from broken or clipped wings are behind a divided mind.
He washes himself in her skin. She conceals and connects her skin to sin, whispering what her thoughts escape. Out of a mouth, the pauses come, more than the words. The waiting game; the fading of sun in the heart to be permanent with the moon. Waiting for the minute to perish in the crevices, the scars. Her highs are the same as the lows. His face finds her deep in sensation. His view is blinded in the bond. Hand on her neck. Eyes down her throat. What a view in seeing what is, once again, all over with the dying light of an exhausted candle, becoming raw in its undisguised wish. That is, to be the martyr, the whore; he sees her more in space than in grace.
High heels are wheels. Fingers exist to linger, to hush the lips and cancel the breath. She turns to burn against someone else’s scar, where in hoping to find vague renewal in beautiful connection, she ends the idea in a bed of warm softness and cold metal.
Walking in her eyes, speaking more than her mouth, will entertain us for a feast. We could feed or we could speak, finding the tears that descend upon us to hit the plate as tidal waves. Will we notice what splashes us? It is different in two directions. One of lies, the other of truth.
What she likes is not what she loves.
Modern Romanticism 