A butterfly alighted on my face, its wings brushing my cheeks. Iron smoulders. Hammer blows rain down. These hands touch you, knead and twist. This castle is built block by block to safeguard us from harshness. To cultivate the truly important. As someone said in that film, “I would like your sweat to salt our soup.”
Reflected in the television set. In another language, in another continent. With the same smoothness and with the same force. A bunch of yellow flowers. We stroll through Tribeca looking for the river and come across a mound of salt. To melt the snow that builds up on the glass. Fluffy and frozen, in the same image as our simple bodies. Just as this cold burns, I too will burn all the bad times. So only the good ones remain. So only the good ones remain.
The sun took shelter among the reeds at dusk, turning the water into a mirror. Two bathed braids blinked in their twists and turns. We are without clothes between the sheets. You cover my eyes with your hands and nail your kisses into my collarbones. I wander the city and the hours. Wasted hair, broken lips. Something natural. Raw and beautiful. Worldly, delicate. No fantasy.
A little white. Warm and soft. Your hand on satiny texture. A gilded metal, interwoven. The lightness of the two slippery fabrics that fall to the floor in a heap. Alone or with you in the nicest place there is. Like the highest castle or the most resplendent lake. This wad of dollars won’t take us far, but we can clink our glasses. We are tangled up like the gold entwined in my earrings. And this is our love, extravagant and poor.
Sandra Mar
