Written In a rainy Sunday It’s raining here, and the wind doesn’t want to stop knocking on my window. I love the rain, but I still can’t understand why I write every time it appears. Maybe because, if you know how to listen to the rain and the silences, they have their own words. Or maybe, because it also falls on your indecipherable thoughts, while I’m here convincing myself that, no matter how much something can tear us to shreds, or pieces in a trunk, or even like skeletons in a closet, we will never be completely destroyed. I write … Continue reading Writing in the Rain

I slip into your skin, a trespasser in the temple of longing. The air thickens, charged with anticipation—a prelude to the tempest that awaits. My fingers trace the contours of your existence, mapping constellations of secrets etched upon your canvas. Your skin—oh, your skin—is parchment for whispered confessions. Each pore, a wellspring of stories waiting to be inked. I read you like a sacred text, deciphering the hieroglyphs of desire. My eyes, those curious voyagers, drink from your wells of vulnerability. They savor the taste of vulnerability—the sweet ache of surrender. And then, our lips collide—a cataclysm of need. There’s … Continue reading Primal Instincts