He was sleeping. My hands lingered over that which I could not quite fathom, the sweet yet unforgiving narcissistic chemisty of bubble gum love songs; the pinks and bluey-purples of a system suspended equally, but seperatley from my own secondary colours.
The sheets were creased and had left criss-crosses up my thigh. A spiders web, the London Underground. I dared to trace a scratch on his chest, his smooth, male chest. And here was the chest of a girl too, my own. A delcious weighty bounce... Had I been the cotton sheets on which he lay, to give him this small, bloody ribbon? Could female be so soft, so brutal?
I slipped into another world, one of taught ligaments and purposeful struts. My hips had lost thier pendulum swing, stationary, but my back rippled and was strong. I lost fat, gained muscle and maths and weight. All minimal. Loose threads, small change.
He awoke and slid out of bed. He moved, I did not. We were and are two ends of an hourglass: Curvy glass, sharp geometrical st