detalle nimio

Cuando me toca el cuello, aunque sea con su mirada, unos colores, chispas provocan las tonalidades de mi placer, saludan mi sonrojo en la espalda baja, justo encima de la cadera izquierda, un poco más hacia el muslo. Ahí es.

Cuerpo conectado en sensaciones desplazadas.

Quería saltarle encima.
Hacerle cosas que no nombraría ante nadie más (él, por lo menos, yo sonrojaría ante la hazaña con unas copas de mezcal y unas buenas conversaciones heroicas con amistades confesionarias).

Sí, eso.

Sonrojo, una vez más.
Ahora sí son sus manos las que recorren el trazo de los colores que me dejó su hálito en mi cuello un rato antes. Labios carnosos en los míos, chupándome la respiración. Sobre mi espalda huella de sus caricias.

Ah, no quisiera, pero, suspiro.

Suspiró mi castidad (quiso otra palabra ser utilizada, y ser lo prohibí, demasiado tajante), creyendo despedirme, pero no, la agarré con todo mi cuerpo, mi fuerza, mi soltura, mi independencia y mi terror, y le dije, aquí, aquí te quedas, conmigo y mis sonrojos.
Y mis sonrojos.
Sus besos. ¿qué estaba diciendo?

Me preguntó “cómo estuvo tu día, qué hiciste” y ahí, no supe qué hacer. Compartir la cama, sí. La cotidianidad ¿cómo?

(deseos... deseo...)

before the 3...

I never thought I’d reach thirty.
I had poised myself with the inscrutable destiny of creating one great something, and then dying before my face had turned to mature face expression. Yes, at nineteen I was sure I would die young, probably at 27 something or the like; why? Well, some people close to me told me when they thought-felt-knew- when they were to say goodbye, and I thought the same. Of course I was drowning between a personality which hadn’t emerged yet, a damned poet, a depressive writer, a grumbled artist, a solitaire desolated being, an unsatisfied erotomaniac, a suffering artist and of course, the only way to make all of the adjectives that I thought applied to myself come together, was to make myself die before I was thirty.
I wasn’t going to take my life, but I was awed by Sara Kane’s and the like. No, it would have to be an accident.
I had two choices, I could either do something great, let it come out to the world and be praised, probably, for a bit, as a genius and then suddenly die, so then my fame would become greater, bigger, lovelier and much more amusing. Or, I could just die and leave strict orders as to what to do with my belongings, my notebooks and computer. Or expect someone to find them and have the illuminating eureka moment with my words. As I wrote many things at that age and a bit later, I would imagine that person, maybe my mom, maybe a friend, reading the things I left and wanting them to be published. I would have to leave great things behind, Pessoa like, incredible treasures in the realms of my teenage and early adulthood years. I would have to produce enough so as to last a long time, to make my name known and resound in literature classrooms all around the world, or at least, where I went to school. Those were the options.
I had forgotten.
Its incredible what can happen with ones own fatalistic plans once you get tangled up in life.
No, no dramatic death. I am not thirty yet, but almost (less than two years to go). No, I haven’t written the greatest literary work of all times, but I am trying to write something good, I’m doing it. No, I don’t expect to be a genius or great before I’m thirty, and no, I don’t expect to become post – mortem famous.
I guess that less than ten years later, it is not death I expect, but life itself. And yes, creating goes hand in hand with existing.