Words do not reveal the mystery of the soul that dwells in your gaze, the language of sex in which my body screams at the sight of yours is exasperated on the skin. The hyperboles, metaphors and the sublime culture of letters that poetry pours out before the lines of your lips are in vain, they are so little, they are a tiny alchemy. The verve of your art is the easy verb that verse turns into photography, your movement is chance, the whiskey at the end of the night and the secret that is addictive. Your smile is a delight, it is the duality of angels, food of the gods - nectar and ambrosia; your memory consumes me, sets my dreams on fire and makes me burn on the eve of a new day.