That merciless hands of fate that can never get together, that ruthless, you damn … I ask a thousand times why he stubbornly stick from the soul when all around us were fingers that arise to point out later or earlier: our sin has been loving us, our condemnation will forget. Damned, that we are, two defendants in a world of blind who see only with eyes and lives preaching what few really know: love.
Love knows no bodies or moral judgments or gender, religion or do not know the right or wrong or distances and wait; comprises no reasons. So if you know it hurts I doomed if that should be done for the sake of someone else or your own … and it’s hard not to die a little in that case.
I will die a little with him, you will die too is a fact, and in my chest cold this fall will stay forever.
Cristina A. Bottini
You have the momentum of youth who do not already have, the dreams of conquests that have been forgotten by dint of living with down to earth, love to the surface as springs. All that lost wanting to live and scraping is that you: you have paid to kiss your mouth, hands full of caresses, certain innocence in his eyes, the ability to surprise and still look dreamy world and its things; believe in the immediacy, the urgency to live and not in life. You have the freedom to fly, the sky is the limit, distances measured by time and not by distance, the heart open to new loves like wings to new horizons every day; that you have and you can not hide and I love, love everything you symbolize and what you are and what I see as the idealized that ever was and no longer think I can be.
And now I also got me: trapped in the daily task of loving but far dreaming of awake, thinking you full time. You got me, you got me and who I have … ?. You’re still sand between your toes daily leaking a bit, yesterday had a handful of you and now I have less; the end has you completely take the wind.
No se escribe para uno mismo. Se escribe para el otro que somos, que fuimos, que hemos dejado de ser, y también; para quienes se leen en nosotros. A veces uno se encuentra en las letras ajenas, en los sentimientos impropios, en la sílaba adecuada, en el ritmo insospechado, en la idea inconjurada, en el dialogo invisible, en lo que das o tiras al aire.
Thus the soul dies as well: a slow pace, removing forces and laughter that covers the body, like a dead thing rotting from within. “The hand of death that called me”, he made suicidal verses Alejandra, foreshadowing the end of material existence, perpetuating forever the words. You can not cling to life and empty body, the shell that covers and protects, that nexus between man and nature, that weary step toward death .Tantas times you told me you were going, and you left so many were coming back and still playing as I played with Alejandra death as the shadows play with the soul; well of one were so sad and you could tell … How the soul between the skin and conscience shuts, tell me where you are: how do I know how to get out if it can not and is regarded as in an absence of life from within death? ; How you could you, as your God, as your own master, back hands caresses were once desert wastelands, dry mouth kiss, moving to the word, looking off into the nothingness.
What mysteries your absences are saved, what sorrows bleed my mornings; why apuraste step towards the abyss if at the end … in the end we will reach all death comes as the sun each morning.
Cristina A. Bottini
Not the same love at twenty, at thirty or forty, is not the same. When we are young we have the whole world ahead and love comes arrasándonos more like a fire in the body as a feeling that comes from the soul are all passion and jealousy and the other is a belonging to a free being; is ours, and we also volunteer our .It belong to him a game of sexual power that keeps us distracted from burning our world day as if we were eternal, wearing out life believing love and just wanting.
At thirty and change is evident not only in our bodies but also in the way we want because time has not passed in vain and we have learned, by dint of trial and error, we should not find any love because that we desperately belonged plan eventually arrive and we would know admit, it was our always just that we were flown and looked without seeing … Then love is felt not only in the body and soul, combining passion and need, it is valued as such and another belongs to us and not claim it but because he wants to share his life with us.
But at forty, at that stage where you no longer expect NOTHING in life for that matter, when you have been thinking about this for some time and even makes us something other … you fall in love, you really fall in love: a shit. You’re young to have a lifetime ahead to offer the other and are wise to know how to untangle this feeling that clings immeasurable soul, chest, and do not look good walking flown all day and say that you feel butterflies in stomach because someone tells you that “good whiskey” die or will send you to the doctor in case was an ulcer or something like that “malaise”; if you uncover you is because you are older and if you smoke much someone is going to bother because that stuff will kill you .No can hide tummy for more than you buy new clothes or going to get you out those wrinkles that shows you the mirror with makeup.
But the worst, the worst fall in love at forty, is undoubtedly realize that everything you thought you knew about feelings and love and stuff heart … I do not know: you do not know ANYTHING; and then you have to relearn everything.
Cristina A. Bottini
I like your eyes when you saved my reflection there deep inside, your brown skin soft and smooth to touch with my skin, when your mouth opens slightly to kiss your breath full of desires and smell of coffee at dawn, a new day; everything I like: your perfume that I shall be lit throughout the body when the skin is heated, the look that makes you more a request for joy that a look at itself, groans drowned that escape you claiming me, your despair not let you submit your delivery and finally rendered me no more; So I like to know that your body burns in my hands I like. I like to bite, hurting the whole body as a mixture of excitement and open wound that drives you to try to defend yourself but do not know what … what should defend but I am more than your pleasure ?, ¿of telling me where you found pleasure look up!. I’m just that: your pleasure made flesh, taking you to your evil desires dreamed ends, who can kill you but always decides doblegarte better doblegarte.
I like to kiss you, smell you, touch you, take you out the soul in each orgasm, in a last groan desgarrarte desires and then slowly feel your body relax in my arms still agitated. I like to hear your heart pounding in your chest, pounding, desperate at one point and later tired. I like, I like, I like everything about you because he knows prohibited, stolen anything, to danger, shared secretly time, furtive kisses and DOA, different beds, a borrowed life, desperation and longing.
I like you, especially because you know a lover and kissing rendered.
Cristina A. Bottini