I caught a glimpse of her face.
A page within a book that would never turn.
Eyes engraved in my memory.
The mouth speaking words without movement.
The dark red gulp, an opened requiem.
When I approached her skin she’d turn to sand.
She would whisper unwholesome recipes in their ears.
Whispers of dreams that they had strangled.
She felt like crushed ice on a collapsing plant.
She visits the fibres of my skin with one of her fingers.
A fly that never leaves, a harrowing sound that never resigns.
I can count on her to torment me.
“Weiblicher Halbakt” by Lovis Corinth (1858-1925)
