la petite moi

Laying belly-down to elongate fingers to glitter-painted stars on her wall, she'll want to forget the topic of thought. Dismiss this concept she still fears. Light glances over windowpanes and she rises to close curtains. She doesn't remember a balmy day where she did not sweat out sentiments into his arms. Now we're speaking of a different frame of mind. Thinking she was so practical, sensible...pragmatic and systematic- now it all comes down to her emotions. Devotions and devoutness to all she could possibly worship in a Boy. She wishes for internal piety, but she is not done in for that easily. He wins her over, and she feels stranded.
Go: her dingy linens slip over one another and she huddles into an insignificant sphere. To take him out in one blow. If he laid next to her, she'd be in right company. Her parents approved. Skin to skin, raining dampness. Perspire onto closed lids, a white ray -blanched and blue- passing over faces. Over the visage of pure ecstacy; she sees his eyes open and instead closes her own for apprehension. The hands are beginning a voyage and they press in harder and relentlessly. Let me see, they shout. She's awake, mouth agape...full again to the extreme limit. He wants to rid her...flush her cheeks, let her cry out. Feel him and take him in. So little being done, but the world seems shaken.
STOP: she's alone and forlorn, except for a deep slumbering sigh. No more prayers to a non-existant God. But remembering takes all she has and she falls into dusk and light becomes a memory. She'll cry her tears into her pillow, but she memorises his face. He's there, watching over her every night.

Laying on his back, hands folded neatly behind his neck, he twists recollections into stories. He groans in his sleep- want, need, must have. Pressed into the ceiling, nighttime becomes geometry. He counts each square, waiting for a time when they are rejoined.
Go: arm becomes his pillow, and his breathing is heavy. No one knows, do they? and it's a foreign idea to explain it. Abase yourself, you meager souls, and I shall reveal to you how this begins. She's in his vice and they are One. It isn't a mockery, it is a demonstration. A pulsation...a cadence-like nostalgia...is banging at his chest and she feels it as well in the depths of her stomach. It's like a driving force making her continue, but anxiety! Come, tame her and break, master, repress her. She is nothing but something smaller. Is this a dream? He is examining every shocked outcry and knows what she's feeling in a sort-of deviant way. Is this what it's like to hold all power? But she's not subdued as she climbs around like vines to makes better use of herself. Now alarmed, he feels palm to skin. Draw in and out and it's methodical. She doesn't want to like this, he can tell. He grins inside, everything radiating satistfaction. She is non-stop, never ceasing. His stomach flips and its like a shiver to his spine.
STOP: he is not alone. One more occupies a chamber, so he calms his thoughts, his state of mind. Everything in him sings with anger and he is wondering- Where do these dreams come from? Answer being that they come from within. Deep fantasies that never show themselves while tripping along stairs during the radiance of daybreak.

Goodnight, my love.