I cannot stop thinking of you.

I cannot sleep.

I remember these words I wrote for you:

“A whisper in your ear,

words unknown,

language unspoken,

pure lust,

pure pleasure.”

I could add: words unsaid, unwritten, unsent, unseen.

A hand brushing a hand. A smile meeting a smile.

A story without beginning or end. Just a middle; a now.

The drugs start to work, my eyelids are heavy. Behind them a living picture, showing you. Morphing in and out of age and statue.

The music is very quite now. No requiem but thoughtful, melancholic.

Enjoying tragedy, together.

A whisper in your ear, a word in your hand, a sentence on your tounge, to kiss.

Poems whispered all over your body (with lips and hands).

Words, fire, spoken, sung.

Language succeeds, when it brings us closer.

It combines, as sound as vision as lust.

Come and see all this.

It is for you

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