It moves with indifference, the milk that surrounds the heart, curdling as it grips, like the moon passing over the sun, a cloud over a moon, a lash over an eye. It moves, it moves slowly, as if it hold, to cradle, and in its excess, chokes the heart. The action is ambiguous depending on what angle you watch the eclipse. Perhaps the heart was a suicide, diving in the brilliant white of oblivian. Or being dipped, as if a suace, preparing to be consumed with its now powdered exterior. The movement is relative, the action is swallowed. The heart, the milk, one follows, one drinks the other, two bodies realizing their own identity through another.

She lays in bed, half napping, holding her fondue-heart between her legs, fool's gold within her red sea. She her body churns and contorts and strokes the newborn heart, suddenly revealing itself from the incubation of her chest cavity, her pleasure-infant, the tiny bud of a flower, as he plays an organ. Its chords twitch like muscles, and the vibrations of the sound reach her body, undress her. She moans with this music that both does and does not touch her, tapping her heart delicately with one finger, as if she were the drum, playing along with him.

Did you remember your bells? he asks her.

She can't force herself to answer right away. She is Within, fully contained, absorbing him, the heart, the vibrations.

He asks again.

Did you remember your bells?

She coughed out her response, louder and more hostile than she meant it, but pained from the effort it takes to pronounce the words. Yes, I remembered them! I can't take them off! You pierced them through my skin, through my wrists, the corners of my eyes, my nipples, my elbows, behind my knees, across the lips of my vulva.

She shook her body to let him hear them. She heard his voice in a sigh, although it said nothing, took no form of words. His voice in that breath was warm, escaping him in the same way that heat escapes a furnace. She stuck her tongue out to kiss it, to feel its texture, to feel him, his stench, his moisture. She shivered as it touched her, like blue blood turning red in exposure, and ran up her spine like cracking ice.

He continued playing, and she continued rolling along his tongue and up his hands, up his sleeves, touching his nudity under his clothes.

I am everywhere on you, she said. Do you feel me?

His head was tilt back, eyes closed, mouth open. His lack of a response was exactly the response she had hoped for, and she wouldn't force him to come out of it. He let his hands fall from the organ as a million little fingers swept him everywhere.

These were her days spend in captivity, the drunkenness of her lover, of body and senses, saturating her and pouring from her, in a coma of reason. She felt god-like there, both in and outside of herself, yet never moving. She promised herself she would wake before her muscles atrophied. The bells will wake me, she said, the bells will wake me in my sleep, scream so loud that I burst into consciousness. I will wait for the bells, and the bellringer.