burn up in the blue black night

The phantom ache in wrists is like a song, the rope is the melody and the bones are the beat.
When the rope is gone the blood hums copper bright and scalding hot just under skin thinned by too much sensation.
How strange this song is, equal parts pain and misunderstanding, pleasure and comfort. A most unusual dance, all bated breath and sweat streaked skin.
Oh, no, yes, maybe? knife-blade thin teeth raking over hot flesh, the blood is so close, swimming like a slow river, pooling like a lake.
Muscles burning like the pistons of a car, coiling and sliding. the song never seems to go anywhere, no slow build to the bridge, no chorus to the verse, just the rhythm of the rope and the beat of the bones.
The rope bites tighter, the melody changing now, sliding higher and less controlled there isn't another place to be, unsung bruises are slinking low along the bottom, the bass to the rope soprano. the sheets moan along the backs of feet and legs, the forgotten strings section, just a filler.
Now the melody and beat changes, higher and higher till the sound is a single scream that fades into nothingness as if it was never there in the first place.
if the rope is the melody then the bones are the beat and no telling when the two will meet again.