[...]He’s getting hot next to your burning desire. There is a stream of sweat on him. A drop. A salty drop, made up of his particles. A salty drop, just as his uncertainties. Which had finally come out of him. Originated from his temple, getting out directly from his thoughts on fire, the drop is oriented down. It flows heavily, enjoying your eyes on it. It cuddles his edgy cheek, his unshaved cheek, his ignorant cheek. It cuddles your idea of flowing like this. You see your face reflected on it and transfigure yourself emphatically. Now it’s you who touch his skin. So slowly, as if it were your life-long trip. A round-off turn, careful as the entrance in an old museum, and you touch the dreamed neck. You humidify it, taking on its scent of virility and surprising sensitiveness. You’re soft and sluggish, as if you were the last, undecided snow in spring, laying supple on the virgin land. You want so bad to be absorbed by him, but you’re out. You’re on. You repeat each his curve and love taking his shape. You’re a salty drop, made up of his particles.
When the stream reaches his collar-bone, you lick it. The drop, which printed his shape, is forever in you.
