Drawn into Biblical time-space curve, shiny red and lustrous like carbon juices melting into Evian fresh white skin. The contrast of lips reddened by blood and vanity and skins blanched by treetops stronger than righteousness. The touch of a lisp, the trill of a laugh, fallen hankies and the oops of electric touch and the start, pushing it a little bit further, a little deeper, a bit more, inching backwards, regressing in exponential degrees. Sin is baked like apple pie, topped with spices and warmth. Hot as fury, spilling down down down searing scorch marks as it traverses, resting all daisy-like (boom!) on a tongue before dissolving into food. (Thank you for listening, the voice came a-slithering, wrapping itself around her neck like a grateful friend, sliding with invisible scales across the hairs of the graying tones of flesh still slippery with sweat. She shakes a lump of ooh now you’ve done it from the recess of her throat and grinds a heel down into the ground, into the writhing slick rope, into the crack of a skull, and a red fork darts out one last time and drives itself into the dust.