The blood is running a marathon of intriguing sounds and visions; attempting to overcome my desire, it has now generated a simple circle of movements. It opens the path to infinite pleasure, pumps up the cells and particles, before unleashing its fury, like a caged lion, freeing from captivity for the first time. The pulse is fast and demands no pause. The pulse is your neck vibrating within your muscles; it stamps and seals the legitimacy of this gesture, participating to the feast arranged by your willingness to be the only one, the best and last in the order of things, the guilty and the beguiled in the vision of madness.

All of this begins with that sensuous slip of the tongue, making its move throughout the web of our wet mouths.

If you were an animal, you would be punished for such intrepid candour, never to be freed again from the immortal desire that haunts you since the day you were born. And haunted you shall be forever more, unable to see the world, only sensing it outside your prison, wishing it was real and hoping that, in a moment of distraction, your jailors would uncover the secret and finally meet your curiosity, showing you what you have been missing. But this, of course, shall never be.

In a rare moment of clarity, that impure gesture will break the barriers of this mortal coil and evolve into a better form, flawless possibly. Because you are not perfect and I could not punish you for it, the image of what it could have been will be your only comfort.

Every drop of sweat emerges from this chaos with a mission: to be tasted and concealed again. You are a master of deceit, like a magician hypnotizing an audience of fools. The one spectator you are performing for is a slave to your powerful will, this also being a trait of the great illusionist. You encircle the previous specimen, all of them in fact, and those who will come as well. You confine them all to oblivion, so masterful is your performing ability.

While your tongue expresses the intimate desire of your soul, that language so warm comes out of your vocal chords. In Brazil, your homeland, different ways of catching the elements of the strange sounding tongue, catapult your reason beyond the ferocious dominions of sanity. It is not only my particles mixing up with yours, in fact the different, unfamiliar tongues also resurface, but they are now changed and more advanced, so that I can speak your language as well as you can speak mine.

This is all in the mind of those who can envisage the entity of the damage, who can protect themselves from such a tornado of feelings, emotionally charged, terribly wrong and yet so very right. You take this lesson with you, proud to have found the missing part of my brain, but never too worried that I could turn back the hands of time and prepare my shelter. No, I must not shelter my feelings from your violence, as I need it for survival just the way it is. Without it, there could be no tomorrow; without it, there is no existence at all.

I feel your vibrations and expect them to last in order to make me live; I expect them to give me a definition of myself, to find a way out of the morbid thoughts I have. The salvation I crave you are, the immortal salvation making me perfect and imperfect at the same time. Like the constant contradiction we always find in ourselves, the same one that made you believe you could find peace in the number thirteen. I am counting, verifying the acceleration of time, which stood for a short infinity lost on your lips, frozen on your mouth.

Time and time again, the fluids boil in the heat of this encounter. Too many times we have found solace in the certainty of this existence. But this world in motion does not stop for us; the gloomy look of the enemies trying to prevent our fatal encounter, now surround us; we are in the stranglehold of doubts and maybe for a second, will be apart. It will not last more than a second, and yet the pain will be so unbearable, like the scar under your stomach trying to become a bleeding sore again. Those lines on your face will glow and I will be saying the words you taught me to say. It will be only our moment in time, carved on the edge of the world.

The intimacy of our bodies interlaced only by the lips and flowing into each other via the liquid core of our tongues, is everlasting. You and I will take it away with us; for years to come we will keep it as a vital part of ourselves, a true reason to stay alive whenever we will be struggling to find any. In the magic of that togetherness we have found our strength and we have measured its power. To wish for a better outcome it would be offensive.

The taste you gave me I have made mine. And I return it. You take it and give it back again, insatiable as you must be. If the magic of the unknown has now left us, something even better has come to us, the notion of being a part of each other’s self, detached a long time ago and returned to us, in a strange, unexpected way. The mean which we have used to find our way back, would not be suspended in time. It would be at hand, whenever we might need it, to make those fluids alive again. The softness of a cherry, juicy fruit to taste, element of the fast growing earth; the tip of the iceberg, the inviting slice of the sweet cake of passion. And then your beauty, unobtainable even for me, your blood running in streams of fire, the curves of your body and the sweaty pores of mine. Scanning the images and the sounds, little noises and heavy sighs, but most of all, your taste in my mouth, so sweet and clean. How can I define all that and make it comprehensible?

You would call it: o beijo. Perhaps I shall call it: the kiss.