my prose is purple, but not as pretty as lucerne (moved from livejournal)

knee deep in salty water, limp from the hip and letting her face melt off in the waves. blue fingers brittle, arms whispering pleas. 

and then the collapse. where hamstrings stop straining, rupturing. the whispering learns that there is a place and time.  

it is not here. 

the waves wash away, leaving a blank slate. what do i do with you? you simple, virgin thing?  

more. more. more. immaculately preserved specimen of... of... 

her, all kissed-red white face towel and dull blade and rinse stain without soap.