I touch your mouth with a finger around the edge of your mouth, I like drawing it out of my hand as if for the first time your mouth opens, and I just close my eyes to undo everything and restart, every time I born I want to mouth, mouth which my hand chooses and draws you in the face, mouth chosen among all, with sovereign freedom chosen for me to draw it with my hand on your face, and who by chance I do not seek to understand exactly matches your mouth to smile under my hand that you draw.
You look at me, look at me closely, more closely and then play the Cyclops, we looked closer and his eyes get bigger, move towards each other, overlap, and the Cyclops are regarded, breathing confused, their mouths find and fight feebly, biting his lips, his tongue barely supporting the teeth, playing on their campuses, where heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands are looking to sink into your hair, slowly stroking the depth of your hair while we kiss as if we have a mouth full of flowers or fish, living movements, dark fragrance. And if we bite the pain is sweet, and if we are drowning in a brief and terrible absorb Simultaneous breath, that instant death is beautiful. And there is one hard and one taste of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon in the water.