Close your eyes. How do you feel it? I shut my eyelids, but I still sense the contrast between your silhouette and the pinkish cloudy skies. Vividly. Doesn't it feel like we're somehow speaking on the innermost? Sometimes we look at each other and say a million phrases containing no words.
It's fascinating.

I like the way the water embraces my body. I feel like it is talking to me. Softly. Like it is telling me how fragile I am. Slowly I rest my fingers on the surface, touching the tiny part that is in between the air and the very first wet particles. I could play through the hydrodynamics as if I am touching piano keys in an one-instrument adagio. I love adagios. I love how sad and sweet the little notes sound like put aside slow beating marks. I love slow.

And so I let myself pour into the liquid. Strikes one as a little dance. Strong molecules dancing around naked skin cells. It could be something in the midst of a waltz and a piano adagio. Slowly. How do you feel it?
I close my eyes, and the hot moisture mixes up with the alcohol pumping from my bloodstream to my brains. I can almost touch the letters flowing around the atmosphere, willing to be written somewhere. I look at you and I want to write. I want to be able to tell things I could never put into words. I want to reify the endless abstraction of looking into your wide pupils and seeing a billion of thoughts. Sometimes you don't want any light to get into you. That would overload your mind. You're right. That's why I keep waiting outside your lines, anyways. I don't mind spending my time on the intervals that connect what I want and what fits your needs. I think everyone should be comfortable with their inner self before putting it out there. My inside awaits patiently to be dwelled into your psyque. Slowly. Strikes us both like a little dance.
And so I watch you from my pace. I know the feeling of being carried away. By soft piano notes, by the sultry steam breeze, by the sound of our fingertips pressed onto each other. No need to ask you how do you feel it. Sometimes we look at each other and say a million phrases containing no words. It would be just a foolish act to demand a bunch of vowels and consonants to describe perceptions of sensibility.
I still think everyone has to be comfortable with their inner sights. But passion is never comfortable. It is definitely not slow. I look at you and I want to write. I close my eyes and the tiny dots of random stars become thousands of words I cannot fathom into one sentence at a time.
And so I pour myself into you. Slowly, at my pace, but hurried on the unconscious part of me. You're right, that overloads one's mind. Every single time. But I don't mind spending my time on those intervals that connect us. I just love how this bittersweet desperation keeps me pumping around the atmosphere. Keeps me feeling vivid. I feel like it is talking to me, and I gotta talk back to it. Write back to it.
And so I let myself pour into the vowels and consonants. Into your lines. Slowly. Hurried. Softly. Eyes open, eyelids shut. Sometimes we don't even look at each other, but we still say a billion phrases inside and out.
It's just fascinating.