I slip through the cracks between her fingers. She tightens her grip, trying to take hold of me. To stall. I keep the pace, steadily, despite her grabbing and clutching at the unsubstantial fabric of my body. She’ll never slow me down, much less stop my assault. Still, she tries. Registering every image, taking in every sound, tasting every flavor. Our senses mix till we don’t exactly know whether I’m driving her or she’s driving me.
As I go on I can see her start to twitch. I can see her fall and raise back up again. She too becomes my work of art, my signature seeping through her every pore. And though I heal some of the wounds I’ve carved on her back, over her shoulders, I know I’ve tired every fiver of her being. She can barely handle it now and knows she won’t be able to take it any much longer. So she gets anxious, and almost begs me to pick up the pace.
Implacable, I don’t comply. But soon I realize I’m done making my way through her; and she’s done making her way through me. She’s surrendered. She’s ready to be taken full, so I do. Looking eye to eye, I release her. And with one final gasp, she falls through the darkness of the abyss, into the light. Funny thing is, though she’s the one who fell into the abyss, I’m the one that lays wasted.