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Silk

There are moments that feel like a snake. They move in slow motion and their movements are a gliding continuum. You trace your fingers along my back and say it feels like silk. When we wrestle under the covers and I bite your neck, we couldn’t catch our breaths but you didn’t want me to stop. There are bursts of moments, when I feel like a snake. Poisonous, fangs, sneaky, snarling, cold, callous, and all that. But you have to know that these are just my skin. When we stand under the water and you put your tongue against the entrance to my sanity, I am but just a prey. Tender, hopeless and just as scared as you are. If you keep moving, and you keep doing the things you do, if you keep touching me like that, and it’s 10 degrees outside and the wind is howling. I wonder if you’ll reach places where no one else had before. I wonder if our unity is a factorial product or a play-out of our alter-egos. I wonder about your past, and I wonder if we will still remember these moments when we are 60. These moments that feel like a snake.

 

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