I’m wrapped in you. Melting in your silhouette and becoming one, a strange contour of love, flowing with the wind.
I covet him. His hot body over mine, sweaty and smelling like grass after the rain. I want to live that moment of Eros again and again and again. Never having enough of him, the masculine image of me, a piece of art, unique masterpiece of God, that is calmly sleeping beside me.
Love gives value to the one who loves and not to the loved one.
His eyes mimic mine. Sublime beauty marks of a man’s face. Staring and penetrating. Gentle and loving. Salacious. Immaculate. Feeding my hope and starving my anguish.
What is love but a word? A feeling roughly concordant to fear? A fantasy that breaks through the heartbreak and endows the defeated with bravery?
I wonder if Gaudi was collecting pieces of broken tiles, trying to mend his shattered heart, his crushed soul, his splintered being, his overwhelming sorrow for the unrequited love.
It is you folding me like the bellows of an accordion. I am surrendering. Only to you. And giving you the right to own me as you will.
The world stops existing in your arms, leaving me speechless… In love with love.