It drives.
It drives me down and black.
She drives me down through pantheons of mortuary blue,
Breathes, with empty lungs, her spreading plumes of hot intoxication.
Thick rose wine heals these splintered nerves,
In attenuated deltas irrigates the bright-black floodwater, pulses.
Pressing, stop.
Pressing, stop.
Pressing, pleasured, absence, stop.
I collapse with her in fast motion stop action animation.
Every instant paused,
And never stopping, pauses in sequence to accentuate the fulcrum of explosion.
A schematic of parts extending past the margins,
Crossing what is felt with what is seen.
Seen by eyes not of themselves, but leaving selves behind
They see the gorgeous struggle of a macerated pulp, a bruise of her and I.
If skin I had, then under skin the blood would dry and rust.
A sharp, silver taste of chewing tin screams in my ears;
The heave of words gags like a cork stopping stale tub-water.
Stop breathing.
Breath can only convolute the simplicity of wasting down to bone,
Can only calm the sweating horror of the instant before stopping for good.
The very less-than-second when the last second breath relieves the fevered chaos,
That’s the less-than-second most acutely felt in living.

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