A few bursts of soul, I give myself to the greedy Word which is agitated with love. I feel these immobile forms that caress my eyes, those of your verbal body, your epistolary lips.

The writing is dragging in you, cutesy, languid and haunting. She would almost hurt you but you want her. Again & again.

So full, so organic, pierced and released. I catch the beating of your heart that quiver in your throat. I can't quench your thirst. And the stars are looking at you. Beautiful to die for. Beautiful to move me.

I go around you a thousand times. But there is no number to say that. There is nothing to say how unreasonable all this is. One day words cut me with love between these four walls. And I envy them so much to jealously guard the exquisite smell of your deluge. One day words cut me with love, to miss only one Book.

And there you are, you my phrase, the punctuation of my unfinished being of being only half of a love. You the skin of my consonants, the look of my vowels. Underground and intimate staggering of schisms.

Stay my Love, or go if you want. But the bloody idea of ​​your silence creeps into me.

You have no idea ... No idea of ​​the ostentation of the madness that inhabits me, rooted, tireless. The one who made love so well, the one made and to do, so that by saying it she does it and does it again, ibterminable. Possessive of you.

No precious treasure, you have no idea what it is to love yourself without wanting to withdraw from yourself, in the rivers of words that make love.

Erogenous syntax. Sensual autarky.

You are a monster of love.


© Birdy'