Wrap me in the delicate folds of your touch, like paper transformed by the hands of an artist. Each crease, a testament to your passion, each fold, a secret whispered between us. You, the origami master, shaping me into an ornament of desire.

Your fingers, once gentle, now rage across my skin. They become scissors, slicing through my defenses, revealing the vulnerable core within. My legs, once whole, are now fragments, sharp as knives. Every surface of my being bears the marks of your artistry.

And the fruit—the forbidden fruit—we taste it together. It’s ripe, ready to burst, releasing its abundant water. We drink, not caring about the stains it leaves on our lips. The juice runs down our chins, mingling with our shared hunger.

But I am deaf now. Deaf to your screams of passion, the crescendo that echoes through the hours. Before and after every cherry tree falls, we dance on the edge of oblivion. The petals scatter like confetti, and we are the last revelers at this masquerade.

Only my tongue remains—a whirlwind of liquid oration. It traces the contours of your skin, leaving trails of fire. Words dissolve into kisses, and kisses into promises. We are a language of longing, a dialect of desire, spoken in the quiet moments when the world holds its breath.

And so, we fold and unfold, origami lovers caught in the delicate balance between creation and destruction. Our bodies, like paper, bear the scars of our passion. But isn’t that what art is? A beautiful chaos, a masterpiece born from chaos?

©️Beatriz Esmer