Byron

I touch your mouth, with one finger all the edge of your mouth, I draw it as if it came out from my hand, as if for the first time your mouth would open a little, and its enough to close my eyes to undo it all and start again, I make every time rebirth the mouth that I want, the mouth that my hand chooses and draws upon your face, a mouth chosen among all others, with sovereign liberty chosen by myself to draw with my hand in your face, and that by a random that Im not searching to comprehend matches exactly your mouth that smiles underneath the one that my hand is drawing to you. You look at me, from close distance you look at me, each time closer and then we play the Cyclopes, we watch every time closer and the eyes get bigger, move towards each other, overlapping and the Cyclopes watch each other, breathing confused, the mouth find each other and struggle mildly, biting with the lips, barely resting tongues on teeth, playing in their own enclosures, where a heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands go hide in your hair, slowly stroke the depth of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths were full of flowers or fish, with lively movements and dark fragrance. And if we bite the pain is sweet, and if we drown in a brief and terrible surge of breath, that instant death is beautiful. And there is only one saliva and one flavor of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon on the water.