Written on the Body.

"I cannot think of the double curve lithe and flowing with movement as a bony ridge, I think of it as the musical instrument that bears the same root. Clavis. Key. Clavichord. The first stringed instrument with a keyboard. Your clavicle is both keyboard and key. If I push my fingers into the recess behind the bone I find you like a soft shell crab. I find openings between the springs of muscle where I can press myself into the chords of your neck, The bone runs in perfect scale from sternum to scapula. It feels lathe-trned. Why should a bone be balletic.

You have a dress with a décolletage to emphasize your breasts. I suppose cleavage is the proper focus but what I wanted to do was fasten my index finger and thumb at the bolts of your collar bone, push out, spread the web of my hand until it caught against your throat. You asked me if I wanted to stangle you. No, I wanted to fit you, not just in the obvious ways but in so many indentations.

It was a game fitting bone on bone. I thought difference was rated to be the largest part of sexual attraction but there are so many things about us that are the same.

Bone of my bone. Flesh of my flesh. To remember you it's my own body I touch. Thus she was. here and here. The physical memory blunders through the doors the mind has tried to seal. A skeleton key to Bluebeard's chamber. The bloody key that unlocks pain. Wisdom says forget. the body howls. The bolts of your collar bone undo me. Thus she was, here and here."

I must read that book.