Flash Prose Poetry: Flesh

There is a sound. There is a sound, and a beating heart, and a shaking hand.

Your goose pimpled flesh makes you look small despite your size, young despite your maturity. Why are you so cold? What did I say to cool the air so, what did I murmur to scare the warmth away? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to utter such things but sometimes I can’t help myself. I’m straightforward and blunt. I said so. You said so. But is it true? Is it true? There is a sound. It jars me awake and it vacuums the heat out of the air and even though the windows are fogged, even though we are absolutely, undeniably naked, flesh and flesh and flesh, even though we are huddled together we shiver uncontrollably. I hold on to you and you hold on to me and we’ll do this right, we’ll do this together, we’ll figure it out. I always do. Do you think they know? There is a sound. There is a beating heart, somewhere, somewhere in this car. There is a shaking hand. It is entwined with mine. It is the most real thing here.

Slowly heat returns, and your skin calms and your beating heart becomes the last thing I think about. There is a sound, and soft lips, and warm hands. There is a sigh, and then nothing.


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