An incurable, rushing fever — eyes: wild — an insistent rosey bloom seeping out from the heart, an oozing fungus assimilating the nervous system while contagious delerium infects the lymphatics. This is the position of lovers, number 38.
Sinking into pools of their own flesh, melted in the heat of their fevers, they scramble frantically, clawing one over the other to keep themselves from drowning.
Sometimes, fearing the malnourishment of the other, one, rearing up, peels away their dewey skin to reveal their soft pink underneaths. Thankful claws tear at the belly, ravaged chunks gummed and swallowed half-chewed. Fingers sink in up to the last knuckle, slipped between the others ribs.
Sometimes, the hair will be gripped, and, reluctant at first, the scalp resigns itself to giving way, uprooted like a tenacious weed and greed teeth chew meatball sized hunks of brainmatter. Syrupy brain fluid, spilling over the top of the skull, forms runnells at the temples. Thirsty lips will suck them there and trace their length from the source to the estuaries formed at the collarbones.
This is the position of lovers, number 38.