There’s a direct relation between the string between us and the miles between us…
For ten miles it’s the absence of your uncovered breast jamming with your orating eyes,
for hundred miles it’s only the previous and the sound of you…the smell of you…the insane painter of you,
for thousands; I am a gypsy motorcyclist looking for homelessness inside every vaginal wormhole.
But I firmly believe; for infinity I will come back to you…again inside the pool of your flamed dresses and liquids through your speaking petals.
We are drilling windows in each other now,
Let the cars honk and drive over our heads…
I know tomorrow I will be remembered.
I know what it feels to swim through the canals of bohemian times and find stone bridges to get the delicious shadows.
I know how to loose the astronaut in me inside the cave of your wet hairs.

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Photograph: Tengo Lluvia.