I’m Feeling So Textual I Could Kiss You Away with Poetry
I could kiss you away with poetry, take your body while embracing the covers of your skin, drink up all your punctuation marks, savor your words, enjoy the moisture of your sighs, soothe your speech and craze you with my lyrics…
In fact, I can feel you in every intense accentuation, run my fingers across your curves, tame you with commas, accentuate every pore of your skin, caress your very essence, fantasize with the paths of your history, handle your chapters, pass your pages, and close the binding of your waist.
I’m feeling so textual that I could kiss you away with poetry, devour you with prose, cook you in rhymes and decorate you with the pictures in my mind. Then, and only then, would I make you mine as I would be yours during the instants that our readings last.
“I would give you a cup of coffee with Borges and a cigar with Cortázar. I would give you a Lorca in a jar of roses. A pillow of Sabines and blankets of Bendetti. A window of García Márquez and a moon of Neruda.
I would give you the rain of Becquer and the wind of Darío. I would give you the passion of Frida, caresses of Mistral and sighs of Storni. I would also give you a page of Llosa and light of Fuentes. I would give you a pen with your own ink and kisses from my own lips.
You would laugh at the beat of our music and our love. I would give you our love wrapped up in time. I would take the sand from the clock and count it grain by grain. I would make our idyll eternal. This, all of this, I would do for you.”
We will always have each other even if we don’t own each other
Let what must come, come, that uncertainty would catch us with our fingers intertwined, describing the texture of our love, enjoying the singing of autumn leaves and feeling the hunger of the butterflies in our stomach.
Let us be fleeting and become undressed of our prejudices, unbuttoning our fears, seeing each other’s memories, speaking in words, periods and commas, and in uncomfortable silences.
I should hope that our love would destroy stares and that, even when time has run out, I may still recommend you. That you would continue brushing many others’ skins and that all of them would feel that you are the best book and the most wonderful story to ever have fallen into their hands.
I wish you every bit of success. I desire you with conjugated looks in past, present and future. I wish your verbs would tear away my clothes, eroticize my thoughts and submerge my weaknesses, fears and modesty.
– So what shall we do?
– Make love.
– Are you sure?
– Excellent, I’ll start undressing.
– But what are you undressing for?
– Well, to make love.
– Who said you have to do that to make love?
– As far as I know, that’s how it’s done.
– No, that isn’t love. That is possession.
– I don’t understand; how is it done?
– Just leave your clothes on and let’s talk until we tire, till we decipher each other, till we know each other’s fears and deepest secrets, till I can delight myself in seeing you, till these eyes become tired and leave me no choice but to fall asleep.
– Are you going to force them to stay open?
– Yes, only to be able to see you.
Do what you must, but teach me about love
Teach me about love, turn me on with the memory of you, make me blush, make my cheeks turn red. Make me smile in the darkness when I’m alone. Make me remember you tenderly; make me want to hold you in my arms, in my sleepless nights, on one side of my nightstand.
Make the world become excited, that by you they would know true ecstasy. Teach them the sensations you are capable of recreating with the simple touch of your pages and the coating of your skin, with the phrases of your lips, with your stories in minds.
Help me come to know love, make me just want to read you and trust in the impossible, and slide down the vines of the jungle of your stories. Make me admire you, because I know no better passion than to understand myself between your lines and give myself over to your messages.
I read you every night and submerge myself in your letters. I devour your commas and I quiet myself in your periods; I stand still in your ellipses and drown in your exclamations.
I pore through your pages until I come to the following pause. I slip slowly down your phrases. I sip up your vowels. Now I still myself in your suspense and I lunge forward shamelessly, until the awaited final period.
Come to bed with me; we won’t make love, love will make us…
Cortázar surrendered me, submerged me and forged me in the depth and heat of his every phrase. He embraced me for an eternity and brought on my passion with his words. There he paid tribute to our love in the night, to our fantastic readings, our vital recess.
Oh that we should know and each other at the same time, live nervously in the uncertainty of not knowing how to treat each other, that we should rush to caress each other as early lovers in their wakefulness.
Oh that clumsiness would guide us each night; that we should turn pages, never wanting to come to the end. Oh that we should be anxious to finish and rejoice, that we should smile; oh that we should have to separate, that we should distress once the final period has been reached.
Oh that we would enjoy each other, for there is nothing more beautiful than what you give to me, because I want my library to fill itself with books like you and that, at the same time, you would be the one and only who fills its shelves. And so, I would finally be able to experience you time and time again as if it were our first time, book of my life…