Ho una sacra fuoco. Mi corpo e una posta sacra, sacra e sensuale con perfuma particulare. Perfuma de zenzero e legno sandalo. This perfumed skin of mine rises to meet his hands, hands of the prince, principio de suo vita. I tell him not to fall in love with me as my body is understood to be a guitar, not like that of Italian women. And I muster every ounce of self control and restraint to put a limit on the evening. Io dito "sono una persona multo privato" and he understands, he doesn't push the limit, and I'm content. Content in my borrowed bed, on borrowed time, with a borrowed man. And I don't know how to explain this comfort, the comfort I feel in having una anima nuda. He only knows me this way: as a soul laid open for the viewing, except he can't view it at all. And as we talk about the first time we met I press my fingers into his tattoos, I want to see them the way he does. As our bodies excite at the touch of our skin he tells me of his desire for me when we first met. I let him in on the secret that if he had only seen my pleading eyes I would have let him proceed. I would have let him know the outline of my eyes, the way I sigh as he runs his fingers across my collar bone, I would have let him learn the first chords of this body. But rather than that night we have this night, where the instrument of my body is played after we have made music in front of the fire we've built, and shared this music, our laughter and smiles with those whom we were privledged enough to have in our company. And after this music our music becomes gentle sighs, words hanging delicately in the tiny space between us as we press each other's palms into old wounds. We make our pact "Il futuro non esiste, il passato non esiste, solo questo momento. Speriamo por piu, pero viviamo en solo questo memento." I pretend he's asking alot of me when he tells me to think about this night just a little tomorrow and I drink in his words when he says he will spend the day relishing these moments...
E adesso comincia una bella historia di noi.