She was like a piano in a country where everyone has had their hands cut off.

[mood|there's a trick with a knife i'm learning to do]

[mood|wolf in the breast]

[mood|all dawson leery/ joey potter over here]

([mood|i've never known a girl like you before])

you said Is
there anything which
is dead or alive more beautiful
than my body, to have in your fingers
(trembling ever so little)?

I remember that yearning, for something that was always about to happen and was never the same as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back, or out back, in the parking lot, or in the television room with the sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh.