S-Question

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

And it seems life eclipses itself and fills me up with farewells I don’t want to,

but apparently have to

say.

What is a mouth? What are some lips? And why a contact…?

Enough of this:

I’m called a pig, like many others before me.

The hyper-sensibility, the keenness for the touch.

(Scratch, rub, feel;

slide without prowling too much;

slide contracting the sighs.)

(Why am I keen on flying that much?)

“Sex addict.”

It’s not about that. Mere genitelia would only lead to absurd and flavourless monotony.

I like…

the textures (tessitures), the hues.

A wider body, a less one; bigger, more defined; softer, tougher, stiffer…

But even more, the eyes.

Eyes which stare, others that deviate, others that opt to perch on your mouth, or on your breasts, or on your hands.

A fusion of paradigms, perspectives, points of view

(pee, pee, pee):

I want to devour your thought, your individuality, your effervescence which dissipates with a kiss or through your pores.

(I haven’t even mentioned penis or intercourse.)

I just want you to read me with your tongue,

that you mosey on down to my summits and my valleys;

that you see my vulnerability, my perplexity, my eloquence.

An expressive being in a sea of silences that do not condole with broken complacencies.

I (‘d) like to feel your teeth on my neck, the heat of your breath, the erection on my crotch;

your hand sweeping down and up, from my buttock to my waist, once and once again;

that you lower your face to my chest and then further down;

that you encircle my belly button with your tepid ice and you end up melting it in...

(Yes, right there!)

And then, after a while of some little intermittent taps,

may I go flying and explode,

and want to push you away but you would not let me,

up to the point that I no longer belong to my body and feel

I become with the Whole a nothing.