Just your hot heart,
nothing more.

My Paradise, a field,
no nightingales,
no strings,
a river, discrete,
and a little fountain.

Without the spurs,
of the wind, in the branches,
without the star,
that wants to be a leaf.

An enormous light
that will be
the flow
of the Other,
in a field of broken gazes.

A still calm
where our kisses,
sonorous circles
of echoes,
will open, far-off.

And your hot heart,
nothing more.

My car
had been
drizzled
in honey
coloured
leaves
during the
night.

My son
and I
made a
spectacle
of how
the gold
fluttered
off into
the wind,
like a
hundred
monarch
butterflies
through
grey
streets.

I tilt
the rear
view mirror,
waiting for
lights to
change.

His soft,
buttery face
reflected
back at
me.

I wonder
how it's
possible
that such
a small
person
has the
power
to halt
the sand
through an
hourglass,
to awaken
sunflowers
by the
moon,
to derive
nectar
from a
stone.

What other
name
is there
for a
person
of such
power
than that
of a bird
which
arises
from its
own
ashes.

In your hands I’ll turn to ash, easily crumbled by your breath.
With rough palms you’ll softly caress, down my neck and to my *******.
Our bodies will mesh, with heat and sweat; Sighs will feed your appetite,
Cravings building towards delight with every stroke and every bite.
Pull me close and I’ll let you inside, if you twist and writhe
With my shivering spine, as our passion collides
And my mouth writes your name for the passing skies;
Dawns and dusks blurred with moans and grunts.
I’ll surrender my love, my body, my flaws
Completely open up, just to feel your pulse.

-SLuR