Draft 1 of something I hope to revise

"Who needs knives when your words have the power to kill me inside?" she asked, her torso draped over the bed, pearls suspended from her neck, lips puckered in faded-lipstick red. Her dress was half off, and its cream melded with the sheet's ivory silk. Her arms stuck out like branches, and I wanted touch them, like a bird pirching on a bough that is waiting for spring. It's bark is scaly and dead-looking, but her skin is the color of curdled milk and cream.

Instead, I stayed hunched by the plum-colored curtains, feeling her eyes outline the curves of my back, like a sculptor critiquing his own statue. I wish you would draw me with your kisses.

Night stretches like one of those elastics you use to tie up your hair; the silence turns blue like a swimmer underwater. (Remember when we dived beneath singing fountains?)

The night is too dark to keep secrets, so I fold them in the twists of your auburn hair, before letting you fly like a bird from my arms, knowing that tomorrow night I will be crying, longing for the chirp that fills our room like the sun.