Thiagoboucault
Babe, Babe, you oscillate, love, between the most beautiful of infinities and the most restricted and dazzling splendor. You are a living flame that extinguishes the brightness of the oldest, most omnipotent stars, and yet you are a breeze, you are relief. You are color dissolved in water, the brush that spreads the spectrum of the world. From Kandinsky to Frida, you are feeling and revolution, you are art pulsating in living flesh, you are a poem that is written with closed eyes. You transform terror into tenderness, you make Freddy Krueger a fairy tale, Jason falls asleep to the sound of your laughter — because your touch rewrites even fear, your warmth undoes the whip of the world. And the grown men — oh, the grown men... they fall apart at the reach of your skin, of your intoxicating scent, of your pores that sing secrets, of your breasts where time rests, of your hair that guards ancient paths. You are delirium and rest, you are the whole night in a sigh. And I — so alone and so yours — discover myself more man, more animal, more silence, every time I inhabit this miracle called you.
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