Your sacred body

∼≈•∞ 1 – your toes ∞•≈∼

Your toes are tender, sugary grapes my tongue and my lips contend, one against the others, as if they held juice which could save me from the thirst of a scorching extent of sand, until they realize that they are just being selfish, by focusing on my pleasure, as if themselves and you were all my slaves, when the truth is that I, I am your slave, and your pleasure and enjoyment is all that which matters to me, and my tongue and my lips rather exist just for to serve your sweet toes and tickle them and make them wave like sunflowers shaken by the playful invisible fingers of a naughty wind, and send mounting waves of innocent and excited delight to your mind, as if your feet were courted by the waves of another body, all of water, rather than mostly, moved by the sole intents to make you giggle like a child, and to make you sense the devotional gratitude of the universe for you’re an essential part of it without which it would feel empty and lonely.

∼≈•∞ 2 – your soles ∞•≈∼

Your soles are valleys embedded in the sweetest hills, which my eyes explore along their extent, like a cartographer would do after having found that legendary recessed place which songs have been chanting about for generations and which people have just lightly and quickly judged as fantasies for children or dreams for madmen, like a sculptor who just turned the rigid coldness of an anonymous block of marble into the tender warmth of a figure whose borders are so softly defined that one could fall in love with it and already get mad at the idea of seeing it move one light step after the other and leave; and my lips timidly enjoy to land on them, just like my fingers to take a walk on their rounded slopes, to hear you giggle some more for the thickling, as if your soles were sacred lands, and my lips and my fingers were bare feet of pious pilgrims, and the whole universe of ideas and concepts was all scrambled by the revolution any humble obedience to love is; your soles leave light and delicate footprints on the sand, on the grass, on the soil of life, tracks which I faithfully follow, trying to look at the world with your stare, which belongs, at once, both to the child who gets astonished by everything, and to the sage who already saw all of it coming.

∼≈•∞ 3 – your legs ∞•≈∼

Your legs are a vertiginous carnival attraction consisting of countless ascents and descents, they are sides of mountains made up of slopes defeating and enslaving and governing gravity beyond its limits, on which I slide up, and then I climb down, dragged by an irresistible force, after my eyes already got lost, falling down, up, down and up again, and jumping up, down, up, forever down, melting down, from their orbits of indifferent peace, turning and twisting to the point of first wearing out and then finally ripping the optical nerves, and then rolling, free, rolling anywhere, merrily, laughing like children on waving meadows on sweet slopes, wanting to explore, wanting to know, wanting to marvel about where such places lead to, yet wishing it never ended and there was always somewhere left to explore, to get to know, to marvel about; your legs are coated of the most delicate crust of silk, covering a magmatic lithosphere of vital masses, whose wondrous motion, that perfect syncrhonicity of bones like mechanisms, and junctions like gears, and tendons and muscles like levers, renders them ever-changing, ever-revolving, like the starts above; your legs are the tramples on which I run the longest distances, on which I step over the towering mountains, on which I jump from planet to comet to the deepest ever-lasting oblivion, they are the towers from which I triumph and rule over the adversities of life as if they were particles of dead dust; your legs are the massive pillars of my universe, on which the most finely decorated architrave above my raptured sight, above my reality-disrupting dreams, above my maddness-inducing desires, was placed, to shelter me, for heavenly decree.

∼≈•∞ 4 – your pelvis ∞•≈∼

Your pelvis is my El Dorado which I always crave to reach, which makes me pensively and blindly stare anywhere, as if it could appear there, far away, beyond the mists; your pelvis is my Atlantis whose memories of its lush orchards and of its sea-kissed shores deprive me of my sleep each single night since I had to say goodbye to it without even having ever been there; your pelvis is my legendary Baghdad each tale created by my roused fantasy crosses, one way or the other; your pelvis is my Sanctum where I dream to build my modest home, where I come in tears of sentiment and joy to humbly bow down on my knees and pray after removing my sandals for it’s the flourishing and sacred cradle where my life itself seems to me began from; your pelvis is the valley where Spring and Summer court each other and together last forever, it’s the place where giving and taking get together to elevate the highest prayer, the place where the divine gift of eternity is sown, disguised, in the land of mortals; your pelvis is the sumptuous palace of the greatest monarch ever existed, yet unknown to the world for that richness which is not ostentatious gains thousands times its value, awaiting, with much anticipation and a warm welcome already prepared, for me, yes, me, the most humble pilgrim coming from the other side of the world, so to cover me with and share with me the same opulence, for a treasure which is shared with the beloved one makes the gratitude and the happiness twice; and I feel I am the richest person this world ever knew, and I’m inspired by your generosity to be generous in return, and I, in a state of deep awe, spread petals of roses on the temple of your fecundity and I pronounce in tears my vows of devotion to you and to your divine power, and I officiate, with inexpressible gratitude and the most complete participation of my humble being, the gentle rites which your stupendous shrine deserves.

∼≈•∞ 5 – your back ∞•≈∼

Your back is a guarding monolith, unadorned like any lid settled on the most incredible treasure whose richness can’t be surpassed and should rather surprise, because unexpected; your back is the playfield for cheerful drops of rain, jumping and landing and sliding, multiplicating by dividing, and summing up oneness by subtracting it, down rounded borders and along tracks between delicate cuspids; your back is soft at the touch, delicate hills on a plain of combed silk, your back is solid at the sinking of the finger, magnificent structure of ivory dressed of carmine fibers like an architect could only dream to project and witness the completion of; your back is the clay tablet on which I imagine to write with my finger the most revolutionary laws of physics and the most adventurous verses on love your skin itself suggests to me; your back is the holy door to which my lips dare to approach, to convey to your heart within stomping echoes of my burning desire, as if I was a desperate believer impatient to find the miraculous hands and your heart was the saint, the healer I’ve always been praying to find; your back is the listening surface on which I let my ear approach and adhere, while holding my breath as if I had to sink down to the bottom of the sea, so to grasp the subtle sounds of your breath first entering home and then soon leaving, to visit the world, after having adorned itself with the invisible tiara of the sparkles of your soul, so to detach from it countless gems, produced by your inner being like the oyster produces a pearl, and throw them at the ones you meet along the way, to bless them.

∼≈•∞ 6 – your belly button ∞•≈∼

Your belly button is the sacred repository of the vestiges of the strongest bond ever known in nature, and even beyond its lush sphere; your belly button is the crystallized shape, impressed in the apex of time of deliverance, of the vortex of pain and joy which brought you out of the warm, comforting darkness and into the revealing and blessing light; your belly button preserves, like a relic resting, laid down, on a magnificent silk drape, the most stupefacent fossilization of that pattern of gyruses which the fall of the broken bond described, and even if I was the greatest scholar in all the languages, I’d still have to admit my misery in front of that language life used while letting fall those glyphs of body matter for to describe the glorious and irreplaceable purpose only your soul can fulfill in the history of the whole universe; your belly button is a cup more valuable than any other made of gold and encrusted with gemstones, it’s the stemless chalice which would transmute a plain sip of water into the most inebriating ambrosial nectar; your belly button is the centre of the universe, your belly button is a sucking tornado around which my body is disgregated into elemental fragments which turn and revolve, raptured by an endless ecstasy, at once knowing to have to stay together to preserve my essence, yet wanting to get closer and closer to the precipice, to the centre, until there’s no other liberating option left than that to let themselves precipitate, fall and sink in its venerable cavity which must necessarily lead down to the centre of the centre, to that “nt”, like “never touchable”, but this is just too much to take, now, so I’ll better go on, or I will want to order to my atoms to reassemble themselves into water for to fall from a vapour-like concretion suddenly appeared in the air, for to fall into your belly button, to find all about it and let its shape mold me, making me forget of everything else.

∼≈•∞ 7 – your arms ∞•≈∼

Your arms are deliverers of hugs and salutes, they are my shelter, my home, my fortress against the heart-quaking hurts; your hands are the patient and faithful scriveners of the most important messages from the remote galaxies revolving in your soul, from the most complex routes discovered in your mind, from the most stupefacent alternatives to reality your imagination gives birth to, from the most fragile and powerful feelings your heart interweaves between one beat and the other; your hands are certainly gifted with the property of healing everything, from the wounds in my heart, to the stars saddened by the feeble memories of crowds who forgot what dreaming feels like: because your hands are drawn with flawless royalty, and sculpted with the most supreme artistry; on your left hand the sun is born every single day, while from your right hand the moon enchants the poets; your hands are expert and skilled in the spells able to transform the matter, the rawness of nature into sublime and nurturing flavour; your fingers are inviting pastries to playfully suck and assault with my tongue, tickling their sides and in between down where they fuse into tender layers of rose-coloured skin; your nails are crowns of dignity and nobility, before which diamonds, emeralds and rubies in the wombs of the ancient mountains dissolve into dust and sink in, ashamed by an unmerciful comparison they cannot ever win; your hands dance in the air just like your feet similarly do on the ground, and that’s how you lock both the lifeless elements at the extremities of your being, both voluntarily enslaved to your need of motion, and the whole universe stands still, depriving itself of any still of kynetic energy only for to transfer it into your body, and from all around, from the lonely distances away, admires you, holding its humongous breath, while you are the only entity left dancing.

∼≈•∞ 8 – your breasts ∞•≈∼

Your breasts are like pillows which can soften any impact life can ever drag me to; your breasts are like water lilies on a pond whose surface is rippled by children swimming and laughing in a Summer afternoon; your breasts are adorned like the most uniform rock can embed jewels of astonishing singularity; your breasts are like the blood rushing in the brain when the eyes shut down the light on the perceived reality to better turn on a vermilion fantasy which feels so much more present and desired; your breasts are like remote twin planets an astronomer would study and lose his mind on for a lifetime and on whose mysterious and ever-desired surfaces would make testament to have his ashes be equally scattered, and there finally have his essence rest in peace; your breasts are a childish temptation for the hand, to feel and probe and sink in, that humbling paradox combining majestic, proud firmness of the mountain and devoted softness of the heart which fell in love; your breasts are tender fruits rooted in the sand, yet rich of the milk from this starred galaxy, prodigious nectar infused with the power to turn pygmies into giants; your breasts are magnets to the lips and the mouth, are calls to the breath which protectively and avidly wraps and dresses their peaks to conceal them to the sight of anyone else, to the saliva which would suck their essence so to be flooded and overwhelmed by and lose itself into its beloved flavour; your breasts are like entries to passages which can lead to your beating heart, and I put my blushed ears on each one them, and between them, to hear the softly muffled rhythm audibly expressed by your blessed existence; your breasts are like that never-fading melancholy for the first home one can remember, and vivid memories of flavours and fragrances of a long-gone childhood lived in the certainty of a comforting and protecting love.

∼≈•∞ 9 – your neck ∞•≈∼

Your neck is like a young, magical tree, connecting earth and sky, humanity and divinity, reality and dreams, with your head like the only one fruit it bears, said to give life, in turn, to the tree from which it receives it; your neck is like a flexible duct enclosing wires and tubes, bringing energy and resources from powerful sources to an extraordinary device about which legends say it prevents the universe from falling apart; your neck is like the impossible tower of a wizard, whose ambition is that to neither live among the other humans, nor to to reside alone among the deserted clouds; your neck, proud against the arrogant, promptly reclining towards the humble, gives me lessons in justice, each time your stare plunges into the eyes of someone; your neck is a fresh gush of water squirting out of the fountain in the middle of the fabulous private garden in the palace of the queen; your neck is a powerful catapult, loaded with my numbed head, with my raptured eyes, which are thrown above and beyond all the different spheres of the skies around the planet, letting me witness the birth of stars no one knows yet, that one day will lead crowds of believers to their promise land and will announce to cruel kings the presage of their ruinous fall; your neck’s outlines and shape infuse daring dynamics to the concept itself of statics, to the point that all the models adopted to describe the physical reality show their inadequacy; the outlines of your neck are the curves on which my lips would spend ages to scrupolously verify the concept for which a curve can be considered made up of an unlimited number of infinitely limited points, one close to the other, and to kiss each one of them, without forgetting or leaving behind not even one, all affectionately, all passionately, so to testify to each one my congratulations and gratitude for being a part, no matter how infinitesimal, of such a perfect hyperbole.

∼≈•∞ 10 – your hair ∞•≈∼

Your hair rests on your breasts like two twin waterfalls whose rivulets jump and fall on the boldest rocks, so frantically and continuously to become delicate veils of light onto their concrete solidity; your hair is an endless parade of shiny samples of shades, whose number I’d gladly lose my mind while trying to count it, whose count I’d lose so frequently, half of the times for the distraction given by its sultry smell of flowers, the other half for the undeniable intention to never lead such task to its fulfillment; your hair is to your face what foliage is to the tree, what dress is to the body, what crown is to the sovereign; your hair has the potential to grow enough to dress your beloved person in your own cherished silk, to deline the continents and protect them from the seas, or the other way round, to wrap this beautiful planet and tie a cute bow around it, as a present made with your whole heart, to reach up to the moon and kiss its dusty and scorched surface and bring life even up there; your hair has a will of its own, for the way it now rests in locks spread like sumptuous peacock tails, and now it gets together in slender spirals turning towards all the directions, embodying the most perfect geometrical constructions of spirals exemplifying speed, acceleration and angular momentum, and making me wish to bend myself along their shape; your hair is a system of slides on which young stars play to let themselves safely fall from the sky and visit the Earth without getting hurt; your hair exists in that fleeting conceptual point where fluid and solid coexist, and in that paradoxal state in which being stably rooted and falling happen at once, and I, I will both wash and dry my hands and my face in its miraculous balance, and I’ll learn how to spread my wings and fly from its providential existence and suspension, guided by the stars entangled in its very own nature.

∼≈•∞ 11 – your face ∞•≈∼

Your face is an intrepid treatise on the most elusive and unreachable genres of harmonies, the masterpiece of an artist whose one brushstroke took a life to be perfectly felt and conceived, before being performed; your face is a formula so beautifully complex that a crowd of mathematicians deranged their own intellect by trying to understand it, without deriving from their attempts neither the glory of a page on a school textbook, nor the joy to have decrypted the secret of your wondrous and graceful beauty; your face is the adorned wall of the athenaeum where your inner child diligently studies from the highest sources of learning, it’s the transparent facade of a library, whose books are circumstances and their pages are precious instants, in which your soul, your heart and your mind absorb the sunlight of the knowledge of love and beauty; your face is the plaza on which the most beautiful expressions of your feelings, of your intimate universe, of your inner growth, are brought to the light, expressed and conveyed; your face is the noble seat of an enlightened scholar imparting wisdom with the kindest manners and the most righteous words; your face is the breathing portrait of all the most precious and desirable inner qualities; your face is a gallery on whose brocade walls magnificent paintings, each one displaying a significant moment in your life in which you revealed one of your virtues, are exposed to teach anyone watching how to behave, how to live, how to exist; your face is a gracious lake, among the mountains, into which a serene sky mirrors itself, and neither the sky nor the lake have to do anything else than being themselves for to be beautiful, enough to take the breath away; your face is the mirror into which your splendid soul looks at itself, and I admire such reflection sculpted in skin and flesh and bones, and I can’t help but scrutinizing myself, beating my own chest and solemnly murmuring “mea culpa”.

∼≈•∞ 12 – your mouth ∞•≈∼

Your mouth is a poetess who invents rhymes about the mysteries of the cosmos and of the psyche, and anyone listening is undecided about whether to understand more about and find the solutions to such soul-tearing enigmas, or rather to roam as much distant as possible from the answers so to have an excuse to keep listening; your mouth is a singer performing songs about the healing power of love, and the responsibilities it involves, and anyone listening to her chant lowers their head, conscious of the solemnity of her reminders; your mouth is an orator declaiming speeches which sound like phenomenal architectures of words, lines and paragraphs, for which new daring words should be invented; your mouth is the caring friend which always has an advice for me, if my inner self is lost in the darkest night; your mouth is the triumphal monument to abundance, to the rapture of senses pulled away and catapulted beyond what’s known and knowledgeable; your mouth has gorgeous lips, one of which sings anthems to opulence, and the other sings hymns to modesty, and their counterpoint builds up the most perfect madrigals; your mouth is now sensuous, enough to flood with the melancholy of the desire the cavities of the heart behind my eyes, enough to want my mouth to perfectly adhere to it and my body to sink into yours, and now cheerfully laughing crystals turned into sounds, like those of a little child whose innocence makes those little feet take steps on the clouds where angels sleep, unaware; your mouth is the most sumptuous door, mostly closed, for the enchanting and joy-infusing sight of the thirty two ivory sculptures is a privilege not easily conceded to anyone… and I would die in happiness, and be reborn in bliss, at once, if I was granted the immense blessing of admiring them, and I would spend my life to proclaim the vanity of any art produced by human hand, in comparison to the healing wonder the sight of your smile, so naturally existing in you, is.

∼≈•∞ 13 – your nose ∞•≈∼

Your nose is the mountain my mind climbs, and from there I meditate on the greatest and most impenetrable mysteries of the heavenly abysses, and then, from such highest cliff, I jump and plunge into the sea of which your lips are like wild and sumptuous waves of passion and truth; your nose escapes any quantification or qualification about its size, shape, proportions, your nose simply is placed and it’s formed in such a fashion to be exactly the way it should be; your nose protects the entries from which the most precious yet the least visible entity we need to live is welcomed into your cavities by your body, and I would want to be a simple molecule of air for to be able to travel within you and witness such inner grace; your nose is like the central pillar immersed in the penumbra of a temple and your eyes are the two holes at its east and west sides, from which the sunlight enters and dresses the place of a sense of divinity; your nose is the nobile border which delimits right and wrong, justice and injustice, acceptable and inacceptable, enlightenment and obscurity; your nose is a rostrum for your face which is a royal ship roaming through the sea of life, the first announcing boldly the close arrival of the second, so that anyone may haul up the coloured sails of their souls, to honour you; your nose, the delicious tip of your nose, is the surface, the point on which my mouth would joyfully hurl on, covering it with kisses, for it would be the place closest to your lips, without being your lips, and you would perhaps allow at least that; your nose is a noble paladin with your face like a massive army at its back, which I imagine advancing proudly towards me, to the point that in my imagination I’m tempted to kneel down before you, and, while I kiss your feet, to implore your mercy for my life, and to take me as your slave so that I may serve you while you, in turn, serve your ideal.

∼≈•∞ 14 – your eyes ∞•≈∼

Your eyes are windows shaded with slight pastel nuances; from the inside, they are open to the universe surrounding you, and to everything which is not perceived by the senses, but you can read with the soul which resides deep in you; and of that soul, from the ouside, I can have a glimpse, if I stare into those precipices of blackness your pupils are, without letting my heart, my mind and my soul, fall and get lost into that vastness hinted by retractable circles of hypnothic aesthetical perfection; your eyes pronounce millions words which your soul could never hand to the mouth, or to the hands, for there is no language rich enough to include them all; your eyes are ambassadors of that reign within, whose complete knowledge is exclusive prerogative of God, you’re the enlightened ruler of; your eyes are interwoven with, and reveal, the most luminous darkness, and the most darkened light, at once; your eyes are perfect islands of streaked night immersed in seas of the albumen of the egg of the day whose sun will soon peek through your pupils; your eyes see beyond what anyone else sees, and I can tell this from the way you look at anything, from the solemnity and serenity of your stares, as if they could trascend the borders between today and tomorrow, visible and invisible, understandable and unintelligible; your eyes have the purity of a child who knows no sin, yet they inspect what they’re looking at, whether living or not, as if they had seen millions dawns and way more sunsets, and there’s no entity able to resist their stare without feeling tested, but also understood, forgiven and loved; your eyes now look as if they just cried all the water in a portion of sea contained in a gulf abunding with flavours and fragrances, colours and sounds, and now as if they had just stolen all the joy existing in the world, and were just going to redistribute it to everyone, generously multiplied.

∼≈•∞ 15 – your body ∞•≈∼

Your body.

Your body is the massive centre of a giant star, burning my skin with its warmth which my touch amplifies until I feel it’s liquefying my core; your body is the market of spices, whose intense smells mix with each other and invade my nostrils until my head is spinning and my mind is numbed by the pleasure and I only know and understand that I absolutely need to taste them all, before I lose my mind, or, perhaps, just with the precise intent of losing it; your body is the rainbow of all the shades of you, the palette which is used to paint the most faithful portrait of perfection, the beginning foundation on which any other colour was created by subtraction; your body is the sum of all the flavours which are pleasant and amiable to my palate, the sorbet I would let my mouth taste, and my lips be coated by, and my tongue play with, forever; your body is the fountain whose miraculous water I’d let my thirst be quenched by for the eternity, the fruit whose juices I’d savour, drop after drop, till there are lights roaming, blind, in the sky; your body is the honey I’d sink my finger in for to voluptuously bring it to my lips, with much expectation, and to let it redefine, each time, in a constant sublimation, my sense of sweet; your body is the source of all the most delicate sounds, the secret spring of all the most revealing nuances of silences; your body plays the inaudible symphony of the universe to which my heart lets itself be subjugated and almost reduced to a feeble beat which humbly follows that grandiose music, and my breathing slows down its pace in order to try to stretch and tend to that, fundamental amongst all the fundamentals, whose frequencies describe a note whose sound describes the story of everything and anything, of the infinity I’d pick your person to represent, if I had to choose the most apt entity.

∼≈•∞ 16 – your body (and your soul) ∞•≈∼

Your body is the sacred temple of your soul, and I’ll never get tired of stating this enormous, liberating, and moving truth: a soul whose vastness, able to stretch beyond the borders of anything existing or conceivable, able to surpass the tears for what is lost, the fear of what hasn’t come yet, the doubt about what isn’t and will never be known or demonstrated, makes my body wrap and knot into itself like a mass tending to a dimensionless point, to squeeze the juice of my soul out so to dilute it in yours and participate of your essence and let it overcome and conquer mine, until I take your shades, I absorb your founding principles, I morph myself on your model, and I conform to your form, and my flaws are forgotten in your supreme laws; your body is the tool your soul was given to render you able to sweeten the salt in the oceans, to make the sand of deadly dunes blossom, all of a sudden, so to crush death under the dripping mass of life, to turn the impossible into possible; your body is the admirable monument to honour the eternity of the most complete and pure love, the aquamarine sea with no ports where one can sail forever, the infinite pastures where the grass of joy grows luxuriant and no tear rolls down the cheek for any feeling but happiness and gratitude; your body is to your soul like the tree is to its tender, green marrow, and it’s such an apt home that your soul neither thinks nor tries to rip itself off from your flesh, so to return as soon as possible to the heavens, but it rather makes itself comfortable, like someone who worked hard all the day, in the middle of the fury of raging elements, and now finally enjoys the pleasure of falling asleep between the sheets of a bed perfectly prepared; your body is the home I would choose for my soul, asking to yours to make just a little room, but then I realize that my body, left alone, could not adore yours: and that’s how I can accept even this unbearable distance.

∼≈•∞ 17 – your body (and the inner you) ∞•≈∼

Your body provides precise words to your thoughts and to your intelligence, and defined parameters and rules to the ideas of beauty, your body translates into signs, located in space and time and expressed by means of the most noble energy, the wisdom acquired by your soul with blood, sweat and tears, the tender generosity of your heart, the wondrous constructions of your mind; your body gives laughters to decode your music within and when I hear them I know how to be in heaven must sound like; your body creates storms of tears to flush out the most deranging pains, and if only I could, then I would collect them all in an urn, and I would cry over it, from a distance so not to mix my tears with yours, and I would scatter them on the poor and the plagued for I am certain and I believe in their miraculous properties, and I would pray day and night to make one rose grow in the desert for each one of them, and one smile on your face, for each one of them, as well, and I would give one day of my uttermost happiness to turn it into a day of your bliss, no matter if this would deprive me of days to live, for your rapture would in turn make me rejoice, and as you can see there’s no exit from this recursivity of giving everything, to you and for you, my love fences me in; your body subtly speaks a language by itself, at once wanting to keep your most intimate secrets clouded to the eyes of the world, and wishing that they might be interpreted, one fine day, so to spare you from the need to put them into words; your body is the perfect translation, into the language of reality, from a paragraph of bliss written in Heaven, by an angel with a pure heart, using a feather created with threads of children’s levity, the beautiful, colorless ink of truth, on a page of time which will never fade or crumble into dust the wind would blow away.

∼≈•∞ 18 – your body (and its distances) ∞•≈∼

Your body is precluded and denied, to my close inspection and adoration, to my arms, to my hands, to my mouth, to my tongue, to my nostrils, to my ears; your body is out of reach, far away on this planet, remote enough to be like a legend they say was born on crumbling borders of the universe they can only theorize about; yet your body is close enough to push my mind towards the black hole of rationality, for how could I ever forget that if only I was brave enough, and experienced enough, and I had lived more and put my limits to test, more, then I could find ways to draw on my maps a track to you, reasonably subdivided in steps, and then follow it on the wings of my mind-shattering desire? But your body is the most distant entity in the history of the universe, beyond the delta which separates what’s possible from what’s impossible and will never be, as there aren’t walls taller and more untearable than those men build pointing at the sky; your body is behind the most impenetrable barrier, that which has no beginning and no ending and no separations in between, that which, I guess, would have to be a “no”, setting on your wondrous lips like a bleeding sun whose pain would be mine to feel, and, who knows, perhaps even yours; and that’s how your body becomes to my mind the wall itself, preventing it from knowing the secrets in yours, for the seal your lips are, and your will, even more, behind which there’s the revelation I would want you to let me know, I implore you!, let me know, which feelings about me have taken your heart as their home, and how they are dressed, whether they wear brilliant colours to hint they’re going to take part to a marriage, or rather dark and saddening pigments, for they’re going to give the last tribute to my love, before burying it still alive and desperate under a stone with written “it could never be, not even by wanting it”.

∼≈•∞ 19 – your body (and my craving) ∞•≈∼

Your body is in my sighs, your body is in my chants, your body is in my agitated nights, your body is in my pillow, which I grab and bite to muffle my sobbing, and soak with my tears, your body is in all my prayers it would be unfair to pray, and in all my praises I never get tired of pronouncing, your body is lost somewhere in the intimidating, ever-growing and crushing space of emptiness, physical, metaphysical and spiritual, I lack to reach any possible infinity; your body is, to my deranging mind, like that curve my straight path gets infinitesimally close, more and more, to the point that I almost feel on my fingertips the warm touch of your skin, but then I keep going along my path, on and on, dragged by a cruel force I can’t resist, and your body becomes infinitely distant, more and more, and there’s no way back, and the thought of what could have been is like a blade slammed down through layers of aching flesh; your body is what my exhausted senses miss, and if they do it’s because I cannot have your heart, and that’s how your body becomes the reminder of how the precious soul of yours cannot ever become one with mine, and I struggle twice, and I can’t tell which one destroys me the most, between these two kinds of missing, between these two types of needing, or even, to let my fantasy travel far away once more, which one is more cruel, between the dragon breathing fire on my marrow aching for the desired feelings of your skin I cannot touch, and of your flesh I cannot fondle, and of your body I cannot cling to like to a lifebuoy, or rather the tiger pitiably roaring at the moon like my soul owls at the merciful heavens for that “yes”, that syllable I’ve been craving the most throughout all my life, which cannot ever knock at the waiting doors of my ears, which cannot be welcome and let in and revered with every honour, because it’s been sent by you to announce the most beautiful proposition.

∼≈•∞ 20 – you (and the seal on my lips) ∞•≈∼

Your body is the most valuable treasure acquirable on this earth; your body is my sacred book of all the prayers written to celebrate all the possible declinations of beauty in the universe, all exemplified in you, on whose pages I chant psalms each day, and heart-piercing laments each lonely night; your body is like a miracle someone, who had my same illness, was granted, and I am at once the most glad for they were so blessed, and so deluded by myself, for perhaps I just hadn’t enough faith; your body is the tower of Babel which never crumbles down, for it’s built as a humble tribute to the heavens, and not as a selfish display of vanishing magnificence; your body is the miraculous spring of the river of your life which I call forever blessed, in front of the court, summoned in flamboyant assembly, of all the eons and of all the light-years; your body is a noble, slender tree, cradled by the wind of sanctity, growing nurtured by tears of proud satisfaction, for your deeds, falling from the skies, and that very same tree gives wondrous fruits of expression, at any season, so many of which you generously send to me, despite this distance like an abyss filled with the most unbearably bitter water of impossibility, and I, here, I survive on their sweet, juicy pulp, and sweet are my tears as I cry, and thank God for your existence, for your life, for all the ways you choose to be, and I wish to your body the glorious prize of the eternal youth, and to your soul, its sweetest guest, my most beloved mate in the heart, the most cheerful and joyful eternity in the presence of our generous Creator and Gifter, Who is certainly pleased with the magnificence of you, one of His most beautiful and accomplished masterpieces, for the grace of His merciful benevolence, and for your enthusiastic and industrious adhesion.

Your body exists, your soul exists, your life is unfolding before my eyes, and I am admitted to acknowledge such prodigies, and I don’t know what more I could ask for… and even though I actually do, I know that my love must now seal my lips.

And so be it, in the end, for each and every one, whatever it has to be.

Amen.

(c) Daniele Bergamini “danbergam”