Fast Lane

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I am reading Breakfast With Buddha, by Roland Merullo. Time is flying. It seems like I have been here ages ago. And yet there's this new me within the old. Bertrand Russell. Passion ressurges. Calmly between our kisses and the surprise of you in me. Like we knew. You fit me. The touch of your mild and soft skin. The paleness of your music. And the shyness of my body in redemption finding yours. And then my tiny body occupying the spaces you left for me. Your back, the lines of your hands, your lips. The mystery you are. This puzzle you are. I like your passion. It suits me well in this desert my life has been. Your bring water with your kisses. You write your passion all over me. Let's discover you say. Me, a scared cat who looks incredulous. Hiding in the garden. I am a beast who taints your body with my love. Someone who holds you in the darkness of your room hoping you wouldn't let me go. Maybe this time my passion will thrive and turn into something.

We danced Di Sarli. And Di Sarli again. Todo, Nada. We scrambled in our sweaty bodies. We shuffled. We turned. You were getting close to me. I dared to desire and kiss you. Not sure why. Maybe it was what you said before. Maybe it was the wine. Or the dancing. Or your salty sweat dripping from my nose and my hand holding you behind your neck. We moved our legs and we touched bellies.

What if nothing changes. Snows outside. Pedro Laurenz. The Orchestras. I get goosebumps. Your spontaneous and smily. Your eyes. You held my hand after. We tasted our bodies and lips and your tongue felt like wine. Fierce. And I wanted you to be mine. If I could only stay in you.

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