Cascading hot against the soft edge of her, honey on the stove and cherry blossoms seen from the other side of the world through telescopic lenses these were his hands. Thick and slow and convalecent almost juice fought from the core of some loose fruit the parts of their bodies that are usually reserved for either quiet moments with oneself or for the menial tasks of living, tying shoelaces and unfolding the paper packages that breakfast cereal normally arrives. Cutting hunks of melon on the kitchen counter and dialing your mother's phone number, these digits are evolved for these purposes but in this instance they have become appendages specifically for the divining of where exactly the flesh becomes concavity and where it protrudes in the correct fashion thus that it fits into the corner of a palm and there becomes warm and flushed beneath the breath of lifelines.

So she found out about it while taking him in, and she arched her back and put her hand to the wall for support. She wanted more of their bellies touching, she wanted to understand the fact of his face and the worry there, a crease stuck firm into his brow bone when he shut his eyes tight and let sound escape. She wanted always bedding beneath her knees, and she exhaled sharp nearly falling back and shuddering, didn't know before that this was it, had never been so sure as just this moment.