while I weigh taking you beyond.
You, oneiric character,
whom I undress as desire rises.
She is me, or so I attempt,
scarlet girl, whom I strip of clothes
on a Friday, night of words,
where I drink
so I can imagine you,
once more.
Between my fingers,
I hold you
a whole undoing;
me, you, or her
a princess dispossessed of her crown,
as the music drives the tempo
and clothes are torn away.
Erotic sketch,
of precious breasts;
and feet trapped within
your colorful heels.
Your neckline,
already nonexistent to my eyes,
lit up the party
that later became your cage.
You drew a thousand eyes with every step,
but now you’re more than just mine.
I undressed your intelligence
and you, fatal elixir,
what every other gaze failed
to dare, to steal, to sin;
my philosopher, sexy in her very being.
That after: “I think,
but I don’t necessarily have to exist”,
you Mount of Venus slips into existence.
Ah. Stop thinking now.
Eroticism was always your intelligence,
and here you have me, naked,
seeking passage through your body,
a body that doesn’t necessarily need to exist,
does it?