It’s not hurting enough, she says with latticed eyes and he wonders if he could ever fill that void; there’s just too much space between them though he clings like a cheap scarf, all static and stubble. His hands fit around her waist, her neck when her own barely circumnavigate the glass. Those too-small hands can be coy or cruel and cold is the sum of their robot parts. Disgust disguised as distress - the ever-actress will substitute pain where passion is wanting. Half-way content they retreat to the everyday of the soy sauce fish and park bench sighs. The damsel decomposed stretches tiny digits towards any semblance of love, however small. More cliched than a caged bird she felt, spread caviar on her eyelids, and waited for the wolves to come.
Stephanie Davies, ‘Teeth are Ghosts that Haunt’