The passing of Masks from one eye to the other.
The face of the old man is made of paper and the hands of the young girl are made of claws. She rends him wide with her howls and her hands and he shocks her hard with a look.
Only one look.
He is comfortable in the quiet, in the silence, under her raw and wild and wanting, under her hot need, under her spears and automatic weaponry and brass knuckles and chains wrapped around her wrists. He presses a book to his chest with a flower pressed under the cover, he is lowered into his bed as a coffin, he longs for sleep and the dreams that come with it. Inoffensive, roll-trousered, he wants better than she does, deeper, slower, more fully. His love is a perfect thing, considered. He has put great effort into his love, where she has put great heat.
The love needs both of them, requires both of them, but perhaps only one face...
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