Hot

It is hot and it is not hell. It is tight and it is not prison. Your embrace wound around me, clinging and strong to the point of madness. Piece by piece they crumble, my dried-up fragments, and rise again soft and juicy, atom by atom, in every cell, to the quick rhythm of your beating. Like spring, the eruption of spring from beneath the hard, dry crust. The eruption of spring from the places of yesterday’s wounds. Your kisses, one after another, on my wound. This is the presence of the densest forests in a single branch. And it is the voice of all the hoopoes that, breathless, knock on all the doors in the depths of this forest; like a path from the depths to the summit, height upon height, endless, and standing, without getting lost behind the warehouse of goods. Above the warehouse, from among all the packages of desires, comes out, rises tall, and calls you by your name, unveiled and naked, my desire: like a path that wants your presence, without being abandoned, without getting lost, from the depths to the summit, height upon height, with the dance of your breaths in every cell of mine; clinging and strong...