Marked by an upward movement, his left hand went for my head. Big, long hands expressed thickness of want while tendons shot blood to the nails. Clear and cut fingers, already caressing my stone ground hair, found a place on my face. Blurred by my skin, their vision ran quickly down my neck.
Drawn by marked traces, his right hand met my lips as they parted. Gripping the skin, explored the left eye. Smoothed the eyebrow that ridges sharp slopes. No longer within reach, both eyes slid off possible understanding. Their natural sadness dripped into the well that was his body. Right hand and eyes disappeared behind my back. The hand down my chord now strummed back ribs. Asked which was his. Dug to pull out the heart. Life engraved on the palm then set out for the breast. Counted small volcanos and suked fire. Fearless of burns it rested.
Neck veins and left hand fought go and come. Countless beats pushed down the palm that scratched the body. That opened furrows. Irrigated bones. The hand reached the right breast. It rested and concealed the slope.
Burnt and unburnt hand met, turned the world upside down. Carefully holding a heart, they went for the plateau that bordered the sky.
Giovanna Bartucci.
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