They sit at the table, eating not-food food. They talk and they live and they hurt. They walk and they eat and they bleed. The table spins and they laugh and they laugh and they laugh.
He is like pressing the brush against your scalp too hard. He is hard, half-clean women. He is soft, too-clean men. He is the sweat of a day's labor in the sun, salty and wholesome. He is the scrape of hard hair over skin.
She is grape popsicles and bright tissue paper. She is hot, filling food. She is storybooks and layers of cake and sex.
He is paper, thin and old. He is fluffy clouds on a summer day. He is bullets and kneecaps with dimples. He is water washed hands and water blessed life.
She is candle wax, fluid and smooth. She is earth, moist and verdant. She is perfectly steeped tea.
He is too bright sunlight, don't stare. He is only for looking at during the eclipse, when he is covered in darkness. He defies logic and shines brighter when darkness in on him, under him, wrapped around his body. The retina is damaged and I can't see for days. He is the bird that flies too high then comes back down.
She is restraint. She is lion eyes and mane. She is why the sun shines.
He is compromise without a choice. He is barren, hard earth. He is the sound of wind in my ears.
I spin.
He is the end. He is the end of the tunnel that is what I see. He is the feeling of too much coffee, of not enough oxygen. He is a caress too gentle so that it tickles instead of pleases. He is slow, hard music that makes me want to spin too fast, and sharp glass smiles that make my feet jump and laugh. He is a beast inside thick crystal and I want to take him and smash him against the floor just to see if he would break, to see if he would come out and bite me. He wants to, I can see it in the eyes, feel it in my wrists. Would he be as strong as he looks inside or would we come and find strawberry juice on his mouth? Strawberries are good but I'm better; and would he know this with his glass teeth in the flesh of me? Would he know the taste of me in his heart, down the back of his throat? He is lemon clean and sticky honey and bitter herbs. He is the pound and rush of my own blood.