In the hazy morning glow, he stands. His shoulder blades easing tense muscles, rolling nighttime pricks of pain from the box springs of your cheap mattress down his body. The choppy light mingling with the dust motes that have settled in the room and circle his head into a dingy halo of morning air. His body hovers over yours in that fierce, fiery protection that come from his arms and his mouth and his innate essence and you think he must be an angel. And form his shoulder blades sprout wings of words and inklings and scribbles that mingle with the stagnant air and his smile. The words of safety and art and love unfurl around him and you can’t help but reach out and pluck apart with your pen. They’re scribbled out in the recesses and margins of your notebook, verbalizing your angel and his wings with the untidy scrawl of your hand,. You pluck and you pull until he smiles down at you, the blurred halo brandished out with the noontime sun, the wings stripped down to the rolling muscles of his back. He is a man again. A guardian who kneels back at your side into the aching box spring mattress strewn across your floor, curling his arms around you. In your words, you find his humanity, skittered from fantasy to the reality of his touch along your skin and his lips murmuring the words scribbled into your notebook.
Black Widow - Susanne Sundfør (The Brothel)