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Holding Therapy
Maybe it was he
whipping off his belt and going out, incomplete and swinging. All his descent was personified in the treetops, a hammer of ease for her, the belt hard around his neck, leaving a purple ring, matching the noose. His pre-death, the switchbacks between when he hung, barely in-between days of disjointed physical comfort and rhythmic reflections. Whipping off his belt he had gone out, incomplete and swinging. All his descent had been in the burning powder of the crimson trail left by his tongue; her head hung, barely in-between days of disjointed physical comfort and rhythmic reflections. His touch, barely hung between appetite and rigid expectations of splintering his skin against her touch. In the burning powder of the crimson trail left by his tongue; her head welcomed the bumps on his tongue against her palate, resolutely scraping her wet epidermis. She had a touch that barely hung between appetite and rigid expectations of splintering her skin against his touch. The bumps on his tongue against her palate, resolutely scraping her wet epidermis. She had the tendency to hold him as she would a log, close yet rigid. He had the jarring tendency to speak in monosyllables while staring blankly away from her. Salmoning, they flapped their extremities, fighting away from embrace, upstream and away from home. The tendency to hold him as she would a log, close yet rigid; personified in the treetops, a hammer of comfort. Her pre-life, the switchbacks between when he had salmoned, flapping his extremities, fighting his way against embrace, upstream and away from home. |  |
