the climate of my thoughts it's consumed into a kiss soft, long, wild, heavenly my mind invokes you with all arguments of lust thirsted as an empty pen your silhouette is contoured by my eyes, using their color attired in the outfit of love my breath is modulated with all whispers of your touches mysterious felt on my body you, sculptor of my thoughts, the climate you set in me

[we are...] words hugged in a soft tenderly sound of the calmness of an extraterrestrial blue with the perfume of an unheard flower acting in the color of a rosaline smile contaminated by love and mutilated in the garden of your dreams and mine, where it began, where it all begins, daily, for repeating the most powerful sentence articulated with eight letters of the alphabet constructed patiently by you in me, to feel you in my atom and molecule, — [an infinite playlist]

I'm not drunk. You know it so well. You scanned me. Every single night and every single day, — expected. You strangled every single dream, shutting me up... — clenched... — in the tricky mission of memories. I'm not hungry. You know it so well. You scanned me. With your lungs. Breathing me entirely. Abandoned amid playground love, anointed with all your lust, — in my venus absolute. Imprints of your lips are on me. Fixed.

Loving you is so simple, — nothing complicated... It's the artwork of the sky, painted by sinful thoughts into marveled sensations offered by hope's degrees which spring up instantly from there, till there... from so too late to, so too early, with your head in the clouds guided by words written and sealed by letters full of keys

through mystic labyrinth of words that briskly fly amid the shadows, it whispers love, togged in my suit, [hold-on, just-breathe, I'll-be-there] i'll be in the lucid psyche's essence led by unspeakable parlance, to feel composed as you were born surrounded by the scent of stars stars are infused in colors of the day, well propelled in your cozy gravity, while deep transitions of the fantasy lop about, in allusive phraseology…

Did we taste too much out of too little of what we offered us by chance, or just too little has remained out of too much when both of us together, we piloted our demented love thru supernatural? Questions many, coming and going out, but answers will be found exactly when the nightfall has rendezvous again with dews' sweetness while the light of day begins when the night it is young... still

[ Always ], it is too late, or it's too early just to be loved, exactly as you love… time never seems enough to offer you the opportunity of meeting one who could unfrenglishlytheworld where you have caught. [ Therefore ], you win by losing your mind mixing the pain and joy until remains nothing you've got, just irritating thoughts, to the forgetfulness to give... — the love, one which  let you  never to forget of me