Earthier tones daub him/her...stuck upon their backs, arms overhanging a plinth.
On opposing ends, as the gnarled nubs of a broken olive branch--
forsworn to polarity, they extend a foot upon each other's fig leaf.
Mid the dead of adroit forestry, the more they think into silence a meandering blood reads them.
Naked not because they've forgotten clothes to two as one...just laying there to recall something--the bed's become a plinth, art implores make of, break of.
They just lay there, as if violently spit from the egg-shell
white of dashed ******, blank love letter.
Cigarettes rise...freeze for a bit, then rest at their sides--smoke cut up with endemic tension.
They could say something to get out of this...but they don't.