vertabrae fits like a mitt

His lips felt familiar on her skin. They grazed up and down her arms slowly, starting at the fleshy hollow between her clavicle and shoulder blade, and moved quietly down to her thin wrists. Pale and innumerable bumps began to form all across her body, from her kneecaps to the tops of her thighs to the skin just atop her breasts. She could feel her heart pound as she scarcely breathed in the dark room. Arrhythmia. At once, she was transported back to a summer prior, the two of them lying lazily atop one another on a couch on a warm afternoon, sunlight seeping in through the curtains, illuminating his arms and the paper thin space between his biceps and the sleeve of her shirt. She recalled, just upon looking at him once more, the slightly dirty smell of his dark hair entering her nostrils, how it felt as it slipped quickly between her long fingers, the way his hands knew the curves of her body, and knew when to move his wrists ever so slightly as he made his way from her hips to her breasts to her neck, as if he sculpted it himself. She also remembered how he destroyed it himself. She remembered feeling drunk at 3 in the afternoon, the humidity causing her to go completely light headed, to raise her arms and allow him to remove her blouse, lifting it ever so slightly above her chin, catching it on her forehead, and then she remembered ripping off his pants (breaking a button) in excitement. He stopped her and stared at the bruises that had been born onto her ribs. Quickly, she grabbed his hands and swallowed as she drew in another shaky breath, and she could taste the musky sweetness of his sweat on the tip of her tongue. All of this, and she had only laid her eyes upon him for a few seconds.

He felt quite the same. He saw her dancing, black dress clinging to her sides, highlighting the features upon which he had prayed for some time. She danced to the exotic rhythm of a Spanish guitar, a distant horn section, the heavy delicateness of a ¾ beat. He watched as the messy hair of her bun hung down the sides of her face; a careless tendril would occasionally find its way into her mouth, and he watched rapturously as her pink lips surrounded it and as they separated slowly and blew the unruly lock away. He loved when she lowered her head, dipping it luxuriously to the downbeat, revealing a skin colored pearl at the nape of her neck. He remembered rubbing his index finger around it as he lay beneath her, and the way her naked eyelashes danced atop the bridge of his nose in the afternoons; he remembered the sticky and staccato breaths she would emit onto his chest, the way her pale body would tremble when he would touch her ever so slightly, like a barren tree shaking in a gust of wintry wind. Oh, how he loved to touch her. He felt as if his eyes were rolling back into his head; he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t realize how much he missed her.

The room was dark, and they were the only ones in it. He couldn't wait any longer. In curiosity, he bit his lip and leaned in. “Hello again,” he whispered.

Hair stood up against her neck. She hadn’t seen his eyes like that in ages, and she didn’t think she would ever again. Her heart sank, and then it erupted. His hands had cupped the sides of her face; the tips of his thumbs were caressing her temples.

“I will never let you go,” he said.

They shed their clothing quickly and methodically like snakes, and just as smoothly made their way to the bed, their tongues slithering in and out of each others’ mouths with extreme ease. Her skin was soft and moist, and he sank into her body as if it were made of quicksand.

She began moving her fingers up and down his vertebrae: cervical, thoracic, lumbar, resting at the sacrum, moving back up again. She repeated this for quite some time, her fingers eventually creating a thin red line on his back.

He groped her skin tightly, forcing back memories and squeezing hard, hoping to force out drops of truth. She sweated immensely, and soon enough, purple and black bruises began to form all over her body.

They would never let each other go.

They kissed each other passionately, digging deeper into the pink depths, hoping to find the source of the words they had exchanged some time ago. All they found were teeth. But that was not right; that was not how it used to be, or how it should be. She bit his lips hard, and blood began to trickle down the side of his mouth, creating a shallow red pool on the corner of her white sheets. Pillows were soon damp, skin became raw, and their bodies were slicked in each others’ sweat.

Her ribs were the first to go. He thrust himself atop her, again again again, his weight too much to bear. She dug her nails into his sides as his blood began to spill on her chest. She could not breathe. His sides were searing with pain, his heart beating erratically as he stared down to his purple lover.

She felt a crack, looked into his eyes, and then to his arms. She saw familiar shadows and flickers of light, salty skin and sweaty hair, but watched in horror as a single drop of his blood fell from his mouth to her lips. She could not exhale. Her eyes slowly rolled back into her head; her lips parted, revealing not words but a final, winged breath. And then the room dropped dead.

In panic, he shook her frame, but it rattled like broken china and flopped back down to the bed like an old rag doll. He placed his ear next to her heart, which was now smeared in his own blood. Not a sound. He pressed his lips against hers, the ones to which he’d once devoted entire dreams. Hot air moved from his lungs and into her body, but she could not be roused. In terror, he removed his body from hers, revealing a bruised and broken girl on bloody sheets. His heart lurched, sweat pored from his pores, his veins rose like rivers do in a flood. His body ached, his mind was writhing, and he could not let her go. He took the purple girl into his arms, wrapping his fingers around her vertebrae, kissing her bruised shoulders, crying and wiping his tears from the cracks in her now purple lips. He rocked the body back and forth for the rest of the night, until the next morning, when he was stirred by the sun peeking through the curtains. He then found a pistol hidden beneath her bed, kissed her waxy lips for the last time, placed the muzzle into his mouth, and then pulled the trigger. They would never let each other go.