I Died Inside Her
November. A Thursday. The firelight plays tricks on the mind. Especially when it is backlighting for the main attraction.
I dare not sketch her in my journal, lest my intentions be written down. Recorded for all time.
When she moves in front of me, I want to consume her graceful curves. Right angles. Rusty skin. She flicks her finger, and I can’t tell if it is a trick of the firelight or the yearning of my mind. I don’t care when I follow her. Away from the bonfire. Into the shadow. A mist moves under the stars, flung like glitter on black velvet.
I crawl inside her, and I die a little while.
This post is part of the series Death Becomes Me. It is a series of fiction. If this is your first visit to the series, please click here to read the first installment, go here for the second and go here for the third.