A knife. You said even though I don't know what your voice sounds like. I can feel your breath on my skin.
I will be careful, but please stay still. The knife moved, slow, down, turning just so, just so, for that for a moment its bright silver sharp was pressed against her skin. I don't want to cut you
we both know its not true.
it is and it isn't.
the paradox of lust.
You can cut me
And I mean it. I mean everything I say. you touched me tenderly and the knife followed. Touch echoing through my body, a loud sound in an empty house.
Want is a knife. A cut.
Cut me into a new shape. Everything pulling, even the sound of pulling, the tug and wine and unravel of silk and linen cotton and skin. Cut the silk over my breasts, cupped them in your hands, knife and fingers sliding light and easy over their small swell. Breath caught, and again when I think maybe yours would...
is it hard to breathe?
Every motion has a sound, an action and a reaction
bodies in motion will stay in motion...
I hope we take forever and I hope we bleed out in no time at all, like the folded sequences of a dream. I could feel your eyes, the collective gaze of all moments we have spent apart, distance a sensation, like your hand moving over my skin.
you are a stranger