Poetic Allusions · Un P'tit Je Ne Sais Quoi

The fingertips, silky, are wandering on the keyboard whispering your name in the silhouettes of numerals. The chances handle with care the parade of desires while shape of letters on my lips is getting appetizing. The messages are murmuring with a version of fear in the seconds waited and spent at the other end… I'm calling. I'm whispering… Dream, do You hear me?

Is it chocolate, the sweetness mystery of chemistry found on the lips, tongue, and saliva, sneaking in that spontaneous perfection assimilated as if it is the taste of a certain kiss designed for prelude? Is it the water something ardently, which releases you from stress and slips with gently capacity in any place of the body to grab a camouflaged aroma of that sublime pleasure cited every single day? Is it any flower, the flavor of a breath intensely felt in the language of longing among tender colors and those suspires of a song activated by that innocent sin of being more attractive and more loved? Because, the chocolate, water, and flower, music and the silhouette of some dreams have vocalized together at once, — I've Got a Secret, — Good, Better, Best

He runs with me in the marathon of dreams. He needs me. He needs his little blue girl, – Me. I am the one I got him bad, — bad means good. With him, you don't live for tomorrow. Simply, you're wild, you're free at superlative, so better don't believe anybody's rumors, just have faith. Days aren't identically and also, never as easy as you incline to suppose. His love is inhuman. He's not loving like a fool. He loves you, beastly. When he's looking in your eyes, you're melting. His kiss makes cloth be dematerialized instantly. His sensuality is in my existence. He loves me.

I can't be face to face with you, — and yet, I plunged with aplomb into the starry desires of the fantasy, letting myself be pigmented by rays of the sun and mystical symptoms of the moon, using the pen of your soul, to take daily your philosophy's shape, chic sketched out, according to your art of loving, emitted sensually through a daring posture of your scent, tamed with sweetened kisses, through all my senses... I can't be face to face with you, — and yet, inventive, I blindfolded your moon with my sunshine. I whispered to it, you'll find me. Subtle you did it. You found Me.

Orchestrated by airy clouds, the dawn is chirping with soothing caresses on my yearning's fantasy. My eyes are wide open, and yet I didn't wake still. What spell you used, what you put on me, or why, or when you did it, has no point to ask‥ Not at all. Under a velvety mask, everybody wants to be you, but you're not everybody's. You have my mystery. You've got the skill. Besides that, you're in control. Santa on the cell phone, bodied in my thrill, is you. You're all I need... since all I need isn't just love...

Like a child of the Moon, I'm zigzagging myself in a culture that you share every day, framed in a square, so attentively and so devoutly, and so visible everywhere any way the wind blows. It makes me feel as if I got you in any thought of mine, wearing proudly the mark of your love, smoothly and impulsively, mused for me by you.

Shhh… This is a privy conversation. A mysterious and pretty please kind. One between tender Moon and Sun. It happens somewhere far, far away in a bookstore of the galaxy, where the spoken language has the accent of their passion perfect symmetrically with the shapes made by scars of love and of their dominant longing. Carnal. This is a privy conversation. Shhh… It's not for watching it, but feel it...