Come closer. Her name is Maria. Ma-ri-a.

Ma. As my chapped lips shape itself into a parched oval. Desolate and forgetful, with teeth that have outlive the prerogative to smile. Ma. With the whole spectrum of Technicolor, her skirt dances upon the dunes of scorched earth. Billowing in time with her white ankles, white calves and white thighs. The raging sun burns green with envy, the cracked earth glows red with surreptitious desire, hungry for the crevices of her deep wells where eternal thirst resides.

Ma-ri. My mouth blooms with petals of ivory. The tip of my tongue flutters across every syllable. Ma-ri-a. Ma-ri. Ri-a. As it suckles rosewater from her ample bosom, the thirst within my soul subsides. The anguish that harbors the spirit. Anguish borne by the void, pulsating a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for.

Ma-ri-a. My mouth curves huge and pure and perfect. As the moon comes full of its cycle. Her eyes enraptured and bedazzled and magnetized into the heart of whiteness. The serene luminosity bubbling underneath the hovering moon upon her face. With gravity, our celestial bodies spiral (how I wish a collision) because of restlessness, because of yearning, because of vague desire for somebody of something specific.

Coming closer still. With her hand, drawn to its circumference, she reaches out.


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