Love is the verb that caught fire.

Love is a word in movement,
scratching the moon, biting the wind,
pushing me closer to me
even when I'm out of the sky
and far from time.

Love is a bold verb, full of
slickness that invents and hisses
my skin, my hair, my suns
in the corner of my bed while
I call you in,
whispering us.

Wipe the teardrops that are still
in my mirror eyes, say
those things lost in you
that are so good to hear.
Let us follow the muses
while the hours abuse desire,
and this kiss searches for you.

Love is the impulse to
life, to this delicate moment
when I want you to be more shameless,
more body and deeper.
Love is the world.

I confess without fear
that pleasure is poetry,
that our now is fearless
as it tears the living room, the bedroom,
the sheets when we are
alone, so beautifully alone.

Love is what hurts me so much
to feel again and it
wraps around me like letters,
words and prayers.
Love is the trap you weave
like a cool and happy spider, saying
with your hands what your mouth
doesn't.

Let us follow the muses.
Love is the blouse on the floor,
the hands without limits, the indecent
metamorphosis of the soul.
It is the pure despair of giving and receiving.
Love is the verb that caught fire.
Love is the quiet fury
living in me again.