For my beloved Lostbeat:
She is big,
to me,
almost one seventy.
I hug her from behind.
Her hands,
soft and warm,
are able to grasp my ribcage.
She makes me feel smaller,
more vulnerable,
exposed,
and that is pleasant
only if it’s her.
When she presses beyond my insides,
sinking into my heart,
the blood runs.
Strong.
The beats reach my feet,
my arms,
my head.
The endless ringing begins.
Everything is silent,
except my heart.
The air no longer passes.
My vision loses shape.
She loses shape.
And even so, she is beautiful.
She stands out.
Brushing her abdomen.
Going down
and squeezing it.
Squeezing her legs.
Touching her chest,
feeling her heart back,
applying pressure
so that mine
jumps,
goes from fast and strong
to slow,
and again.
Shaking me
to bring it back to life.
Even if I wanted to,
the one closest to controlling it
is her.
The pressure ends.
She settles me on her chest:
sweaty and smooth,
strong,
proud of her work.
I gaze at her hip,
with its curved shapes.
I like it.
I love her so much.
