Skin soft and melting. Fingertips press to, through. Brushing, a caress of the heart, still. Hesitant. Reaching through chipped ribs to that hardened muscle. Its walls slick, touch slips. Pulling back wet fingertips.
Rubbing a cheek against the sallow skin over and between the ribs, like velvet lying over a trellis. There are flowers growing beneath. The shadows are black and green and blossoming. A thin envelope of molding skin that parts gently the inside from the outside. All is bared to see. There is nothing to hide.
A liver, porous, spoiled. Drawing gentle nails across its surface, manicured. Deep liver massage to work the juices. Inspire its processes, break down the knotted scars. Tough. Used.
Face sunken. Cheekbones sharp. Eyes withered in their sockets, but they still look. There are shadows in the white from the way the outer membrane has wrinkled. The curve of the jaw is still soft. The skin gives where it was taut. Fingers march down the spinal top of trachea. Not even a swallow.
Reaching through. The spinal cord is the cable that connects the feeling of the body to the brain. Petting the slack, exposed cord. Sending signals to which the message is lost and the receiver is questionable. A twitch.
Wanting some sort of tensity. Squeezing muscles. The arms. The calves. Atrophy feels like comfort but less at ease. Spindled strings of potential starved and lost. Crisper.
Skin blue and peeling, giving under the touch of lips. The puncture of a tongue. This muscle. That muscle. Press tendons slack, snap. A twitch.
Teeth continue to yellow, like jaundice. But the breath is not the stale after cigarettes, not the stink of sugar like acid boring holes towards relaxed nerves. The breath is still, smelling of body. Inhale. Exhale. Palm pressed against deflation, lungs mostly black. What should be slippery, dry. Wilted. A leak sprung.