God without regrets
If he had to repent of anything, believe me, it would never be of love. That men have forgotten love and replaced it with so many other things, that they have valued all things and reversed paths. God doesn't regret love, my love. That he is all of this, of this substance which the devil covets, because he is not capable of feeling. And I, blessed by God, in what I came to feel, I feel doubly blessed. And I embroider to you once again the love I have for you. God does not repent of love. It is the lack of it that the world resents.
And I paint you another canvas, full of sketches and constant and repeated strokes, that in the exercise of love, discipline is taken and found. And in all colors I find you and all shades strip and define you, and in all canvases you are an unconditional protagonist and I have come to reveal you and I reveal you. And I paint love to you according to what I feel, and as I surrender to that vision, I increase the background music, the gradients of the paint in the water of affections exponentiate a melody where there are no ceilings, no limits and no contamination. You, pure and whole with defects and virtues, you mouth, arms and kisses in the tenderness of a language set to music like Esperanto, in cadenza, on a solo stage, and you are the reason for everything, for the amount of study about you, Can you, my love, be less than a chamber concert, only you and a wide movement, while I dispose you all, while I appreciate you, in a piece without an ending, where I mediate the symphony of painting you, in this melopeia. You, my love, are fully aware that the fire that consumes me is the same that dissolves me at the base of this incidental music. I painted you there, while I looked at you, without even believing it to be reality, I took off your twins shoes, your socks, and one foot at a time, I put them in the metal basin with rosemary and rosemary water, while you, sitting and obeying my requests, looked at me minutely, with your hands resting on your jeans. I could not hold your gaze, like Magdalene, because at that moment, I thanked God, merciful and mysterious, and wanted to wash your feet, not with my hair, but with my lips and hands, to cleanse you from the weariness of the world that passed by you and never took pity, because you also never complained, not even alone. The shell of my hands carried that healing water to my ankles, down to my fingers, and I repeated again that same prayer of thanksgiving, because despite the fatigue that the world brought you, your feet remained the same, with the desire to make way for life, or perhaps for the flow of that night when, We were both sitting on this one, Rare, so rare, embroidered still with pure memories, which was materialized right there. From my mouth, prayer and also my tears of surrender joined in the bowl, where the water sang the same song as the bodies of two lovers. And I looked at you, for the first time, managing to hold the weight of the emotion that trembled inside me, like an intemperate gale that sweeps the world in one gulp, and it was then that I wanted to show you all the dreams kept in my pockets, From time immemorial, not knowing if you still remembered, if you still saw the same as me, colors and nuances, and I opened a balcony at night, a cushion on the cool floor and invited you to sit down. And I opened your chest, mine, and took refuge in yours, between your legs, now without clothes, and finally, I felt the dream liquefy, porous, with the smell of sweet herbs and seawaters, I laid my fragility at your feet, I told you that the world had forgotten to play our music and you kept the silence, this time, without shadows or corpses, only available, a silence that lent itself to the unveiling of secrets and to understanding, to the ritual that it had long kept and that you understood would manifest itself. And I ripped off your indigo-painted jeans, your aqua-blue sweater, and blurred the defense with which you had kept me away all these years. They were neither old nor new hymns, no, the triune of the desire kept was exactly the same, our music, first in solfège, the composition that remained beyond us, and tells me from where I recognized passion and love, like arms of the same river that kept the proper time to flow into the mouth. The music was in and out, in the world and between us, of a voracious desire, without time for planning or restrictions, a flood of liquid chords touching the depths of my belly, Anxiety was a bird that flew close to the waters, when the night raised the thermometers in our body and released the ghosts that inhabited our house, once closed to nostalgia. The rhythm of the night between speeds, duet on the run, wide, adagio, andante and allegro, which is the same as saying slow long, fierce and uncontrolled, my hands were brushes and hips drawing moans from your mouth and I saw your unequal eyes, I rounded the moss-green and stretched out, like a blanket of sperm, in prayer of gratitude to all your skin, no regret over us, painted a gentle breeze and merged with you in a voluptuousness of ecstasy and exhortation, that God was there in the execution of that piece that I had so long called dream. Then, your breathing calmed down and went back up to my neck, the joy of feeling like a woman again, the female, the lioness, the instinctive and emotional animal, and then, only then the contemplation, growing and To the capella, I would give you the destined canvas of my surrender.
And between our sleep and the stored tiredness, we abandoned ourselves to a dawn without a name, without time, without memory, where I repeatedly told you the story that reminded you that you had told me so many lives ago, in another environment, where neither of us forgot the abandonment and longing for the other. There were fears left in the intervals of waiting, yields and despairs, fears and doubts remained, and saliva was born between the decades, on the stairs of the time that was spent, in the fountains and on the hills, where lies were built with the brightest colors to drive us mad, to erase the memory that God preserved in me. I am still a seed, a flower, a nameless fruit, a garden in every place of yours. You are the chimera and the dream, the eternal waiting, the ephemeral pain, the first symphony, the spring in bloom, the sweet and tender memory of love, child's play. You are the flame of my longing as a female, in heat. You are wind, storm, sea, river and waterfalls, gardens of Eden and pyres of fire, bonfires where, from the beginning of the word, all the calendars of loving intensely burn. Even today, in the future, you are the station where the seeds germinate and the fruits, molasses, vegetables and spices are harvested that temper the deepest of love. Even today, you, beginning and end, with an interval of obstacles and a lot of determination from me. It is still like that today, and if you write the end on my skin, you quench the longing and sow the wheat. Make use of oil and also acrylic paint, but paint me whole, the stubbornness, the tenderness, the passion, the urgent surrender, and don't forget the gift I have of preserving the oldest emotions. I still wait for you today in the midst of a time of our own! I write the future and endorse it to God. You who came to me from the heavens, you who stayed in me, when you shouted goodbye remained an eternal goodbye, more than a summer fire, much more than the floods that reduced Atlantis to legend, long before the centuries won and industrialized, long before God's repentance. My love, I draw you the landing, a lake and some jasmines, half a dozen marigolds and, in the pantheon where I kidnapped your soul, I will wait for you to tell you that I am tenacious, resilient, bamboo cane, that I bow to god and it is in him that I wait for you, yes, in him! That love is not oppressed, compressed, fencing, that love is meant to be lived, without shortcuts or easy paths, only love and nothing else. And in him, my love, there will never be room for regrets.
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