Sculpture

Sculpture

 

Camille Claudel in her studio

Camille Claudel in her studio

You look like a sculpture, he says, behind her. She’s naked, walking up a flight of stairs.

He is two men, named twice, his own name and that of his father. A chasm between the two. Slowly, she slips into it.

Pleasure and pain, he said as an aside, the first night they met.

His hands and fingers are too strong, playing deep notes on her skin.

I won’t run away, I promise, he whispers, and seals the story’s end. Both of them too hot, restless in the bed. Unused to company.

You are mysterious. Do you know yourself?

Almost, she says, and laughs.

Can you read me? I am easy to read.

No, she says, you are not.

Kissing fiercely, he battles something primal, distant. They try and fail to kiss away the demons.

In the morning, her hair is knotted, knullhår.

Go, or stay. These moments, all moments, are interludes. You cannot expect them to last.

Sheets in the wash, she opens a new page.

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