Emma…by G. Mramor

His hands came to rest on her bare shoulders, she weakened her shoulders inviting his hands further down, to fall on her heavy breasts, low and beautiful, to move all around her heart’s tract, to fill his hands with her before his voice cried Emma to an empty parlour, to the ghost of a dress hanging by a vacant window, who hides the world and Emma with night, Adam he cries, she bent her head back and beckoned his kept-secret breath on her pale and naked neck and she whispered Adam, his arms tightened around her fleshy stomach, his lips blistered from the chill of her palour, his blood rushed to ice, his heart leapt for faith to die, and again she whispered Adam, to speak his name into eternity, to let a voice spread in flush and wild in devilrush across heaven sprent, to bore in him her nameless voice, who disquiets the world and Emma with night, Adam he cries, lift me up she whispered out of my dress, her hands closed on his over her breasts, and he raised her and she weighed herself back and they fell a hard shudder through the canvas clutter, and she turned and she removed the bob-pin and let flow her curls soft and pearl darker than night and lighter than dawn, and she fell on him night and dawn the cold, who kills the world and Emma, Adam he cries

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