I travel your body looking for the sky, between the storms of your legs and the swell of your hair, lost and without seeking help, with only my instinct as a compass and the emotion of your breath swelling my sail.
Paths that cross, unfold, rethink and emerge over the oscillating territory of your skin, sometimes wide and extensive like a meadow after the rain, sometimes spiked like a live sand with the friendly thistles of your bristling pores, sometimes mysterious as when he looks for me to then walk away, sometimes turgid and sometimes asleep. Wandering and not wanting to find the route, my fingers lose themselves pleased by your tempting geography, rocking between your valleys, tracing every winding bulge, straying in the lush of your forests, soothing in the warmth of the seas they find, sliding down the length of your legs, wishing to embrace the turgor of your breasts, holding on to the solidity of your buttocks, yearning to take root in the penetrating void of your deep kisses.
I go up and under the boundaries of your neck as if to define a crossing in which I am only interested in getting lost, I go down the subtle waterfall of your vertebrae to slowly climb the hills beyond your back, swim, surround them, structure them as coordinates of a map that inflame. Under the paths of your thighs, in no hurry, inquiring them, stroking the signs of your emotion, I arrive at the concavity of the arch of your knee, at the short height of your calves, at the bright rock of your heels and surrender to the paths of your fingers. Naughty promontories that I run like a child, until you turn around and entrust my hand to the exciting adventure of climbing your legs, tasting the meats that await me, plunging into the valley of your belly button, delineating your abdomen, abandoning yourself in the tides of your breathing that accelerates, climb the sinuous profile of your mutinous breasts, go down the line of your center, surrounding each rib with the anticipation of a prolonged wait, anchor in your fiery sleeve and track its seas and, in its fold, its basins and passages, the dense night of your heats and my cravings.