tighten up

by Claudia Martin 📜🪶
I'll go on a ride through your memories.
If I get lost, relax. I'll find the clue which
keeps our spirit tighten up connected.
If not, snap your fingers, I'll come running.
Don't panic. We gonna straighten it out.


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kitchen seems smaller for both of them to use it, — nerves pollutes the air … this bad episode caused tough gazes between them, like a wordless song ⋯ the context wasn't rude, but wasn't pleasant... (neither fun); as it came... has gone
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back for more

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...present day came equipped in the day of yesterday, as if it's gotten back for more, to perform in you, — [you...], [my naughty dream installed at the sun's extremities] ⁂ furtively, i looked at it, puzzling itself in its own love, embellished with the beads of the moments lived at the neck of thoughts while it studied amour's ABCs, [and...], [and timidly, the present day has stolen me a smile] ⁂ in a flash, happiness wings grew gently from my soul, in my chest, the insanity of impatience began to waltz, emotions knew they're translated by no other than you, [all in all…] [all in all, romance language intimidates, whatever day]
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if I'm not asking too much…

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— ...Suppose that to give a few lectures, daily you had to commute between Heaven and Hell, what would you take with you? — A book, a bottle of wine, and a woman, Lord, if I'm not asking too much. — Too much. We’ll cut out the woman. She would involve you in conversations putting ideas into your head, and your preparation would suffer. — I beseech you, cut out the book, I'm gonna write it myself, Lord, if I only have the bottle of wine and the woman. That’s my wish and my need. Is it too much? — You’re asking too much... Supposing that daily, to give a few lectures, you had to commute between Heaven and Hell, what would you take with you? — A bottle of wine and a woman, if I'm not asking too much. — That’s what you wanted before, don’t be insistent, it’s too much, as you know... We’ll cut out the woman. — What do you have against her? Why do you persecute her? Cut out the bottle rather! Wine weakens me, almost leaves
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she likes to hide

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sometimes she screams so mighty that even earplugs of the sky are useless… but sometimes she likes to hide through silences where someone's thought caresses her wet lashes and it bandages her sadness with kisses… enough to remind her, — (she's loved)
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his fictitious gallant being, longs for her nakedness ⋯ somehow she feels him how his mind rides to her... ⋯ feels the appetizing show prior to the start of fancy... ⋯ prior to the wink of the sun in her wetly blue... tempted ⋯ (addicted), waits for her call in his longest deeply dream
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as sweet as a sin...

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I'm as sweet as a sin in your eyes, when you hold the fasting of me demurely in your soul and mind loving me till God and looking humbled for the light to find a smell of the saint of myrrh. I'm as sweet as a sin in your eyes, then, when you're waiting for dispensation, that dispensation for love without knowing if it'll come this sweetness of godly thought with the smell of books and innocence. I'm as sweet as a sin, and you… you gotta be a chocolate Jesus looking in the sinner inside you knowing that it is not a miraculous icon or healing source that could heals you of me... me............................as sweet as a sin…
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caught out in the rain

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salut

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My mind comports itself like a courtesan. If I’m looking for something, — (there is). Any answer is shown and advanced to me in detail by magic’s charm of the universe in my present time, so well monopolized somewhere in the past, where my actions have already transpired, and where I paid many tributes, in coins of love, converted at an exchange office of a galaxy, with, — my chic, — Salut… [in a hypnotic manner] Mon esprit se conduit tel qu’une courtisane. Si je cherche quelque chose, — (y a-t-il…). Toute réponse, est montrée et offerte à moi, en détail, par le charme magique de l’univers, dans mon temps présent, si bien monopolisé quelque part dans le passé, où mes actions ont déjà transpiré, et où, j’ai payé de nombreux hommages, en monnaies d’amour, convertis dans l’une office d’échange d’une galaxie, avec mon chic,– Salut… [d’une façon hypnotique]
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