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/ the precious things we've done /

They walk through town with opera glasses,
Caiaphas extending long limbs below.

/ hidden under my skin /

Zelda loosens the bow of her robe, letting freshly washed hair tumble past her shoulders. In her bed, Lilith awaits, book open, reading nothing in particular. Her love waits in the doorway.

“Let me get a look at you.” She says, tilting her head down for a proper once-over.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zelda murmurs, obliging with a slow turn around; and her love, the Queen of Darkness, puts the book down on their end table, placing a hand on the bed in anticipation. Zelda removes her robe completely, slides under the duvet. Pulls it up under her arms, key-curves her body unlocking the evening’s repletion with her spine. Lilith puts her face in Zelda’s hair immediately, enveloped in scent, and follows by running long nails in a conscientious pattern on her scalp. Each stroke practiced, precise. Lilith follows each strand’s pattern individually. A habit. Ritual. Comfort Zelda feels in no other part of her waking life. The familiarity is a great solace. She has the route memorized. Lilith holds this responsibility as one of the highest she has—caring for Zelda as no one else does.

After awhile, their breath slows. Hearts decelerate. Lilith snakes her arms through the space between chest and shoulder, searching for fingers to enclose.

/ I let you sleep awhile /

The divine mothers of contrapasso
but o, how delicious their punishment.