Above her eyebrows: dust. The tongue of a classic face.
Clouds beneath her eyelids. The plastered structure.
Rocks and cliffs across her brain, grains of lethargy.
The feminine sculpture. The enamoured malady, jealousy,
Heartburn, flames of hair, a knot entangled around her chest.
She thinks of him, there, disappearing in all of her matter.
Giving herself away, every inch, every whiff of her scent,
Her skin, the electrified hair on her neck, her open mouth,
The triangular wetness. And she moulds her head into his armpits,
Baptised, a crowned flower, growing within, a sentiment, chasing
Away abandonment and deconstruction.
She swallows her entombed bitterness
And tastes him, here and there, embalms
Her body with every lost particle of his and
Closes her eyes as if to hold him there, and suffocates
Herself in the wild opus of her obsessed desires.
“Hypatia” by Julius Kronberg (1850-1921)
