Blow of Presence

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I’m taken by the appetite of your large, black eyes, direct in deciphering my body with intense authorship. Your tan makes you profoundly desirable, you tell me. True, I respond, carrying the unconvinced speech of an ignorance regarding my spastic legs – deep anguish. What causes my exploration of cavities, drenching my hands in humid thirst – tessitura of someone who has the habit of eating alone, never satisfying the absence of women. Those, who like me, feed on loneliness, take planes, cross bridges, and enjoy other tongues, savouring what has been naturally theirs from the start: a blow of presence.