The dry-soap was stripping
the soft off the light frames of delicate bone
working among the cold cutlery.

I had forgotten to check her eyes
before I began dropping little bombs,
full of little words,
unresolved like her white wrists,
and straining.

I had lit tiny failures in her irises.

And I had been so close to her neck,
I had inhaled pieces of her,
lonely pines, blue gardens,
and she
deliciously flooded
my cerebra-

What a rupture-

A blood fission
under layers of tissue-

As she turned,
affecting her face unto mine,
I sensed nothing but
how the earth must feel
after quaking.

All provoked parts swelled to
some size,
a goddess rudely awakened,
the moment securing a lesson,
needing to, only once.

In the heat-spaces
between our organs,
and rampant skin,
my little words remained hanging,
Just beneath her gaze-
The death of some sound.