From How it Goes Naked: A literary journey

A Brisk Sunday Morning

I roll down your body as would a brisk Sunday morning on a city when streets are not busy by crossroads of cars and crowds and are tasty with bowls of fresh air, evoking nostalgia of scents, belonging, places and people. I roll down your body and lick the skin off the memories to make new. My face is against your chest. I hear your heartbeat and I count one, two, three, and four. I have waited for you, eight, seven, six, and five. I am a patient lover. I wait. I count. I dream and then it happens. I wait and count your fascination, desire, and falling in and out of love with other women. I don't fight the Pyrrhus of time. I don't. There is no battle to fight but to practice the art of writing you letters of love so that one day you recognize my love, this proud journey, the eruption and survival of the soul.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010