from out of the cold
i step into slow beats
and traces of last night's incense
waking up into a stranger's life
into his perfect languid morning
of touch and scent
of tiny thrills
and small promises whispered into
tight canvases of tautly drawn skin
with wandering, easy fingertips
rediscovering old friends
embracing
always for the first time
and with gargantuanly slow
trembling moments
with slow, portrait-perfect sliding eyes on
slow, portrait-perfect sliding bodies
i enter the stranger
and lose myself
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