when the thickness of desire fills her every pore. Oxygen catches in his throat, but anyway, she breathes. Rebellious, then he is accepting of the rhythms of nourishment and sensation; then with definition and death. Shame entertained and dismissed. Softer, the simplicity is softer. She takes a deep breath and tastes. He takes in her breath and tastes. They swallow each other whole.
He said that clouds were most problematic, but the human form was easy to recreate. The nudes invited his sketch; the sketch invited his brush. I said that I could show him how, and I guided his hand away from the canvas. Our hands moved in circles, pushing toward and pulling away, never allowing the bristles to bend. When I looked up, I could see his cheeks, crimson, were dotted with soft white paint. I let go. And when I did, he resumed his stroke, his need to stroke, and the delicate thing disappeared.