by Erin McKnight
She wants to paint herself into the creases of his skin. Her palette could erase sullied lines; smooth the creases that corrugate his fingertips. The soap is stained in her hues. Should they touch - passing the bar between them - milky suds will slide over the onyx brushstrokes of soot that burrowed into, and dyed, his ridges. Jet ink will spatter in confident drips down his arms. Her soapy incandescence will dilute, swirl, and froth around his toes like a lambent pool of pearls.
Erin McKnight, author of Confession, is the fiction editor for the Prick of the Spindle Literary Journal. She hopes to regain her sanity once she completes her MFA later this month.