Divinity in a broken bed.

The whole night was like slow music played on new strings still learning to use their voices. Red wine sucked the moisture from our mouths, and with parched lips we rationed our spit, and she let me eat her, face first. We played Lady and the Tramp with licorice, and then I watched her undress in the light seeping through her blinds, wan and covered in verdigris. I peeked at her shapes and curves and felt the knot in my throat tighten and threaten to choke me when the firmness of her austere buoyancy held even after the support was removed. Her skin was a flower's petals, delicate and tasting of natural birth. I played the only song I know on her ribcage; my pinky making her ass tickle and twinge with bit-lip anticipation every time I hit the high note. I didn't sleep very well as I had a bone in my prick all night, strangling me of my blood-flow and pressing into the small of her back, like a warm, pulsating lumbar support; a seven inch elephant between us, all trunk and balls with indefatigable persistence. I'd pull down her shirt, and kiss her neck and spine, and bite at the feathers on her shoulders, and - tracing the dips in her loins with my index finger - I 'd write her little poems in the space between her belly-button and my desire. All the while, her little creature was scurrying disapprovingly across the hardwood floor. Its shadow - giant and deceiving - cast upon the wall by the glowing basement light escaping through the expanding cracks of the cold floor. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick - stop - tick-tick-tick-tick-tick - stop -- all night long. I didn't mind. The little thing is neurotic and has crooked nipples from what she tells me. I doubt it'll ever like me.