touch your mouth with a finger touch the edge of your mouth, I draw as if out of my hand as if for the first time your mouth opened a little, and I just close my eyes to undo it and restart, every time I can I want to mouth, mouth to my hand chooses and sketches on the face, a mouth chosen from all, with sovereign freedom of choice for me to draw with my hand on your face, and a random seek not to understand exactly matches your mouth that smiles beneath my hand that you draw.
look at me, at me closely, more closely and then we play the Cyclops, we looked increasingly close and our eyes get bigger, move closer together , overlap and the cyclops look, breathing confusion, their mouths are and struggle in gentle warmth, biting with their lips, barely holding their tongues on their teeth, playing in corners 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 one hard and one flavor of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon on the water.
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