I could write a book about you. Tell it all about your obsessions, your absurd whims, describe your dreams, what you like and what you don’t, unwind your astounding personality in hundreds of pages for them to see you as I do, but… I don’t want to.
It may sound selfish, but I wanna be the only one able to decipher you, to glimpse what hides behind your black eyes when you stare at me, and to put on a map all of your spots, especially those that cannot be seen while dressed and that invite me to kiss them so softly until they disappear, if that is possible at all.
Every thing flashing through your mind, your almost-perfect smile, the rhythm of your sighs harmonizing with mine, the strength of your hands and the tenderness of your caresses, the depth of a kiss from your lips, are details that I am not ready to share so easily.
Whoever wants to get to know you has to sneak in your life, pave their way step by step through your thorny swamp, so as I did, and catch your interest first and then your heart. I will tell nobody my tricks, or the twists and turns of my voyage, if they want to discover you they must wager everything, bet it all.
From my part, I will keep secret your confessions, the curiosities about your everyday life and your brushstrokes from the past that have not yet dried in your present, I will swallow the words you have told me so that nobody can find them and I will delete the debris of your shadow that is left when you walk to the sea.
I could write a book and reveal the beauty of your soul so that they can stop looking at you as a simple mortal and the world can appreciate the sublime being that is now by my side, but for now I prefer to hide everything I know about you in a small box right inside my heart, there where it feels warmer, there where love is born.