A Ball of Clay

Prompt: What if pain didn’t exist?



So I held her.
I set my palms against bare back
and pressed her figure closer.
Torso arched and gaze reared up
toward the envious, inferior, angels.

The hairs on her pallid arms clung like
wax against my dampened skin.
But still my finger traced along
the outline of her static limbs.
Against my chest I felt her own,
struggling to radiate with warmth
and swelling in rapid rhythm
to defy her slowly failing heart.

Around my wrists the red paint curled
then plunged to puddle at my feet.
And in circles around my flustered cheeks
the perfume of scented iron danced.

A ball of clay would have been the same.