But to me we are painting - the coaxing of colour from beneath the white canvas of our skin. My hands are moving hard, avoiding the tender points but nudging flesh towards those centres as if your whole body was congregating. Your hands are roving lightly like a bay-protected tide. I come in like a boulder easing into soil. We seek the rhythms of your dance.
Blood rushes north, rushes south.
You can't call it any relative of waltz or bossa nova. This is a storm. Your hands are busy again, a slickened finger slipping in stirring frenzy in the spine. Then my explosion then yours. I lie on you.