Beauty is the way he holds his mouth when I reach his wrist. I feel sick because I don't feel sick. We're sitting cross-legged by the sea and the rocks lull in gentle waves. The night brings quiet. The sort of quiet I thought skin knew but now knew it did not.
Skin screams things in an inelegance of blood and fecundity.
It yawns to be touched. His arms are a series of linear wounds with jagged open mouths. He looks at me with hunger. Pulling me towards him he hugs me with arms that are open. Open with need, he wraps his arms around me pressing his wounds against me like thousands of wet kisses.