she was there.
in life, in flesh. she was
underneath me, and we were
praying to gods who had no names.

my ribs expanded when
her nails raked them, each chord
in tune, each note sung by her hands.
it took all of me to take
myself out of this experience.
out of body, i said, and went deeper.

she hitched. i felt
each rivet and faculty of her spirit tense.
her thighs, her legs, they wrapped around
my loose titles, and i had
published her, then.

she wore red ink.
her lipstick had a copyright symbol
upon my stomach and interests.

and there, poised, ready,
as we delved into each other
i realized that breathing
was more chore
than instinct.

11/13/2003

Author's Note: krstine briese is the reason for this monstrosity. and i can't spell. can you tell? that rhymed. squee.

and i'm sick. so leave me alone about it. :) record speed, yet again. yet not record quality.

Posted on 11/13/2003
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe