Green eyes

I open up the picture he himself sent last night; I double-tap the screen and zoom in, wanting more, and touch the screen across the pixels of his smile and his eyes, hoping to find what I've been craving --as in pornography, anything is never enough.

A touch screen was once more than enough. A virtual thrill and a voice on the other side of the phone, firing up a ghostly passion. The mere idea of it would heighten up my senses, revolt my entrails, and choke with my heart beat. Only that it wasn't --and will never be-- real.

This time, it's real. He's right here, I close my eyes and focus on the mild tone of his honey dripping voice, waiting for it to make me cry. But the moment never comes. Someone else's lines do, yet they're not about me, nor for me. The mere idea of sentimental desire makes the beat of my stomach accelerate. I close my eyes and focus on his touch filled up with past and emotions, waiting for it to make me feel. But the moment never comes. All is out there is mere physical law. But I don't feel anything. I don't feel anything! How is that possible? Am I not full of desire and passion? Is not the touch of the subtlest ray of light upon my left cheek enough to make me cry? How can an embodied giving soul not make me tremble? How could I not find infinite pleasure in such delightful banquet? How come I devoured it all and did not end up sick of love, throwing up butterflies? When did I loose appetite? 

I always fantasised of the moment enacting Björk's lyrics; of a house burning down, as in that writer's novel who pondered love at the same scales as food. I fantasise of the percussions that echo in my core. The air was inhabited by musical notes --as me myself always imagined it would be. Yet I was deaf, deaf to the most effective lubricant.

Passion is the most effective lubricant, but it's not there, not here. He's never hungry, he's never greedy; he would always be both; and he, he never was. On the other hand, there's me, whose hole cannot be fed. What's the perfect measurement? Where's the middle way? 

An excess of balance is anaesthesia, just as an excess of excess is paralysis. 

Is passion enough, though? 

A pile of teeth that never hide, only to let a tongue soaked up in warm love make its way through a heart split into two, and seal it, like one does when sealing a love letter. A pair of hands that work unceasingly to construct a palace as high as the sun --and to cover its walls accordingly with the most beautiful and suitable love-themed paintings, like I always imagined. An endless fountain of clear, refreshing water, from which I drink late at night, early in the morning, and all during the day, quenching my thirst, comforting my soul, leaving the lightest sweet taste.