Liminal Lover

I have a lover who adores me.
He kneels to kiss the sharpest part of my calf.
He carries a small bottle of water from which only I drink.
He looks at me the way one contemplates a natural phenomenon for the first time: wrapped in mystery, without seeking an explanation.

My lover and I walk through life in parallel.
We share secrets we haven’t even had to speak.
Our love feeds on the present.
We take each other all the time, with or without the body.
Sexuality is a world born from our everyday life: from the longings of the imagination, from the struggles we believe in, from music, from trees, from laughter.

My lover leaves me speechless.
Moved by the exchange of ideas, I feel a knot in my throat.
I don’t cry; I allow myself to feel in silence, and he asks no questions—he simply lets me be with myself.
Sometimes, alone, tears spring from me like a fountain rising from the sacrum to the crown: powerful, inevitable, overflowing, surrendered; with an open heart, in an orgasm.

My lover leans toward my neck to whisper anything at all.
I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.
I remain steady. I know that, as I melt with the vapor of his mouth, he daydreams of the scent of my hair.
A sweet tie.

He looks for any excuse to bring his face close to mine, to place his body at the service of mine, and I feel wrapped in his energy, free—freer than ever.
I can choose between devouring his mouth or walking away without looking back.

My lover knows how to love me. I know it in the same way one knows a plant is being well cared for: it shows.
I look at myself in the mirror and find every color:
my eyes greener than ever, my skin radiant like gold, my cheeks flushed, my hair mahogany, like a lion’s mane.

My lover is liminal: he transcends distances, histories, titles, and rules.
Sometimes I play at calling him my friend, or I ask that we forget each other forever, fully certain that our love does not obey. 

My lover teaches me how love lives within me:
he is a mirror, a portal, a key, a path, a wind.