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

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