With stone joints she bent over. Grinding into the movement in frenetic thrusts. What she sought. It was on the floor. Always had been. But never this far away. She always thought one day she'd find the bottom above her. She still thought she would someday as she stiffened her hips to brace for the pick up. Of this something she only saw when it was dark. After she had pushed everyone away. This something she had always wanted. This nothing that she'd always had.
The menthol fingers of lovers done still scraping at her throat. Dividing every breath into strands. Bliss and regret forming braids in her chest. Breathing. In pictures. In stabs. Breathing through the stone. Bending down. Reaching for something that was never there.
Coffins in the taste of every kiss.
Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
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January
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1 comment:
you are such a delight to read. words writ with jab like stabs. punchy. forthright and as real as sex. (but maybe not quite as enjoyable!).
this really cuts to the bone.
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