She straddles him between her legs like a forlorn heartbroken lover, trying to make him remember the sensation of how her dermis once penetrated through her epidermis, and soaked into his wooden bloodstream. The horse hair of her bow gives a precious syrupy gleam as the blonde waterfall profuses spilling over her lover’s nervous breast, her hair entwining with his. Violent melodies issued that would send a small baby to an early grave and an old man to Nirvana.
Jane was not remorseful or considerate of her lover’s agony, she was bent on extracting the art out of him, setting his mahogany body ablaze with the heat of percussion. But she did not make music, she was a phantom to him. That poor boy did not budge or yelp in fright but absorbed it all, her mania, her hair, her chaos, her epidermis, her dermis, her vapor, her bile. It was over but their intercourse still lay on me, elevating me for a few seconds and then shoving me back inside my physical realm.
A whole, perfectly salted drop bled from my tear duct.