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I got so used to the touch of my skin against my own skin,

so used to the bitter tenderness of my fingers,

which go from tongues of ice

to spoonfuls of a burning fire.

I close my eyes

and travel deep inside,

into every inch of a mute body

brought up to life

in the darkness of a room

turned into a heaven of self-pleasure.

Silence broken by isolated notes

of the guitar I am trying to fix.

If they do not make it to give me voice,

I will be the one to sing for myself,

for my own benefit,

with no back ticket,

a one-way trip in the loneliness

of my own company.

I enjoy the journey,

the minutes devoted

to my wooden boat

in the middle of nowhere and everywhere,

sorrounded by an ocean of possible destinities,

at different rythms,

with different timing.

There is no need to rush,

I already know how it feels

to see the dawn by the beach,

but I haven’t learned by heart

the design of the lines of my changing ocean,

there is a lot to explore, still.

A lot of bunfires to light up in my ship,

wood to cut down with my sharp fingers

and ashes to sweep away

with the heat of my lips.

Inhale and exhale,

with and without maps,

just for the sake of adventure

and (re)descovery.

I got so used to the touch of my skin against my own skin,

so used to the bitter tenderness of my fingers,

but I haven’t got tired of that feeling

cause I have the power of change and reinvention.

Backwards and forwards

in a trip of my own,

tiptoeing in a paradise of waves and calm seas

and bursting into dancing moves,

faster,

stronger,

mute and unmute.

A one-way traveller

of a journey to be repeated as I wish,

the times I want,

over me and over again.

Make music to the ocean

and poetry to the dawn by the beach.

For I love sex,

my sex.

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