I touch your mouth

Julio Cortázar

I touch your mouth, with a finger I touch the edge of your mouth, I’m drawing it as if it were coming out of my hand, as if for the first time your mouth was ajar, and just close my eyes to undo everything and restart, I make my mouth what I want, a mouth that my hand chooses and draws on your face, a mouth chosen among all, with sovereign freedom chosen by me to draw it with your hand on your face, and that by chance that I do not try to understand, exactly coincides with your mouth that smiles below my hand draws you.
You look at me closely, look at me, closer and closer and then we touch the cyclops, we look closer and closer and our eyes widen, they come closer, overlap and the cyclops look at each other, breathing confused, mouths they they meet and fight hotly, biting their lips, barely resting their tongues on their teeth, playing in the rooms where the heavy air enters and leaves with an old perfume and silence.
Then my hands try to sink into your hair, slowly caressing the depth of your hair as we kiss as if we have a mouth full of flowers or fish, of living movements, of dark fragrances. And if we bite, the pain is sweet, and if we drown in a brief and terrible sigh simultaneously, this instant death is beautiful. And there is only one saliva and only a taste of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon in the water.

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