Love, love:
I want you more than I think about you, will you come because of your longing for me, or in response to mine? There is always a reason, although passion knows no reason. An expectant wait for the time of your arrival. The appetite to see the reflection of my pursuit in your eyes. Desideratúm that leads me to the phone to rest on the tone of your voice. Every step or motor that I hear through the windows anticipates the peculiar sound of your arrival. I surrender to the hypnosis of your remembrance and fantasy. I want to kiss you at the slightest provocation, to exist fed by our coincidences.
To produce, from passion
a work that is an expression of love.
Eugenio Trías
Love is an accident in the evening. Tonight I finished my first epistolary painting, with parts of my clothes, a red kiss and the phrase «Kiss me, Bésame mucho.» You invite me to dinner, and upon entering the venue, the group played that song. From that moment on, coincidences follow one another, and the painting is prophetic.
You didn’t have to attract desire.
Either it was in the woman who aroused it or it didn’t exist.
Either it was there at first glance or else it had never been.
It was instant knowledge of sexual relationship or it was nothing.
That, too, I knew before I experienced it.
The Lover, Margueritte Duras.
I close my eyes and recall the encounter. Your senses run through my body in a game of conquest and resistance. Your desire draws my silhouette in the night with a poppy savour, intimate orchid and jade garden. My lips travel the back of your knees, the sensitive area of your thighs, vibrant territories, extensions of the heart. I dress with your scent, with our body talk of hugs, and with the poetry that we are.
And the first time of that trembling,
that surprise at dawn,
and that morning light, that your nakedness draws,
inhabitant of my interior.
That taste of the sea, on plenitude,
walking through the city during the day,
and that restlessness wishing to live you again
every evening.
Yes, I simply could repeat endlessly our moments of knowledge and pleasure, by the encounter of love, or passion? And melancholy because I am aware of the ephemerality of the moment. In countless objects, I collect bridges to shared memories. Our gifts, photographs, epistles multiply on the shelves of my spirit. How to thank your courage to surrender to our sweet dangers, to the sensitivity that we cultivate intertwined? Tenderly, with gratitude, we surrender to the other, to be possessed by a love greater than ourselves, which experiences itself through our encounter.
So it is.
Iris Aggeler
Thank you. Love, grace and transcendence blessings
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Atma Unum 