







I touch your mouth, with one finger I’m touching the border of your mouth, I draw it, like it is going out of my hand, like if for the first time your mouth decides to open, and it’s enough just to close my eyes to break-finish everything and remake it all over again, every time I give birth to the mouth that I wish, the mouth that my hand chooses and draws in your face, a mouth chosen between all mouths with soberer liberty, chosen by me to touch it with my hand in your face, and by a coincidence that I won’t try to understand match exactly with YOUR mouth that is smiling under the one that my hand is drawing.
You look at me, closely you look at me, little by little closer and closer and then we start playing the Cyclops, we look at each other every time closer and closer and the eyes grow bigger they get closer and they superpose and then the Cyclops are looking at each other, they are breathing and confused then the mouths find each other and fight warmly, biting with the lips putting smoothly the tongue on the teeth, playing in their kingdom where a heavy air goes back and forth with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands try to dive in your hair while we kiss just as if we have our mouth full of flowers or little fishes, of live movements, of obscure fragrance, and if we drown in a brief and terrible simultaneous sorbing of breath...that instantaneous death is beautiful, and there is only one saliva and only one flavour of mature fruit.
