TEN PILGRIMS

So I write on your back, pretending these are thoughts of mine, but I will use no ink this time, not a drop, no no no, not even words, only playful fingers, just a bunch of thoughtful, brainy fingers, a dream team of ten bachelors, ten pagan pilgrims crossing the cathedral of your back, solemnly ascending through your vertebrae, pausing reverently by your shoulder blades, hungrily praying to reach your Reign, merrily grazing at your neck, partying gaily over your skin's velvet tapestry, drunkenly inhaling the soft odours of your stillness,

so I write on your back today a wordless, ageless tale which should suffice for you to grasp how immoderately in love I am with you, exactly when I find the sweetest sparkle of sweat running down from the cross to the valley, and I blow a gentle breeze to freeze the drop in time, and a half muffled moan is born on your throat, which I continue myself vibrating in sympathy, a purr à deux that makes us laugh and shiver like two birds, and my fingers walk out of the cathedral by noon, when everything is still, they contour slowly your hips, slide across the slim, adorable legs, and stop to play with your toes ancient, almost forgotten brotherhood games.

Sándalo Naranja

THE SCIENCE OF YOUR BEAUTY

Like a monk, chanting, my voice filling the library chambers, humming your incantations. My soul, rocked by the fireplace embers… Your eyes, my illuminations.

Tirelessly measuring the science of your beauties.

(Passionate observation, note-taking, calculations… sweetly obsessed devotion… unfatigable dreaming…)

The long-concealed secrets, at last revealed:

The final equations of your walking, the variables of your balance, your ankles' diminute rotation angles, your head’s exact tilt.

This monk is proud. In the library towers, over his workspace, he drifts into slumber.

Then, the twilight brings the day, allowing the lovers' souls to criss-cross again, by the first shades of the morning.

Sándalo Naranja

DEEP BELOW, FAR ABOVE

From the deep, I am taking relentlessly all my love to you. Think of it as waves.


Like a breeze I touch you, light and easy...

...And my memories expand like a universe. My finger connects the shiny dots, and I see the constellations. I name them, from my window.






In my soul, I keep them all.


The dots are the threads, the words, the dreams, the songs, the gestures, the moments. Each one, one star.

Know this, my morning star: without a compass, you might be my only north.

Sándalo Naranja

O MEU OLHAR DEMORADO (breathless poem)

Como seria bom se pudesse olhar para ti mais devagar, com a serenidade devida, se conseguirmos parar o tempo do olhar, também, e assim, fotograma a fotograma, pudesse eu registar com alguma precisão o voo das tuas mãos, o alvoroço das tuas pálpebras, a fina dança das costuras da tua roupa quando caminhas, enfim, e um outro mundo infindável de pormenores que detecto aos poucos e nunca consigo consignar devidamente, e talvez assim, em slow-mo, conseguisse eu ver onde é que o teu olhar se pousa exactamente quando falas dessas coisas tuas com esse meio sorriso de encantar... gostaria, enfim, de olhar para ti já sem uma réstia de vergonha nem boa educação, e com o máximo deleite, e que tu te achasses, plena de ti no meu olhar, e nele sentisses esse tocar vagaroso de que tanto te falo, aquele em que se misturam as aguas da ternura mais doce e do desejo mais aceso de ti, numa foz onde já não é mais possível separar as águas, e todo o olhar se revela carícia, finalmente e para sempre desenvergonhada, que te despe de palavras, de razões, de roupas, e atravessa o teu corpo (tão amado!) duma luz como um zénite sem sombras.

Sándalo Naranja

THE THOUSAND HOURS

There are one thousand hours in a day without you, yet just one minute of your eyes on me, just one minute of your light, shining on me, would be enough to undo the thousand hours, to revert all the thousand small deaths, only that light, I say, would be enough to freeze that deadly time, that muted distance, perhaps to unlock the eternal now and here, so I will sit here, expecting at any moment that light flooding through my window, washing down all my shadows, all my little deaths.

Sándalo Naranja