The velvet tone of her skin arrested all my senses, her eternal
Scent galloping over the smooth ardour, the ever-revisited depths
Of her body, I let my face dive into her and I become a crushed fruit.
I cannot degenerate in her, take myself away from her, the engulfing
Silhouette with all its trap doors and encapsulating language. I find an entire
Orchestra in the sounds of her mouth, the god-quoting tongue, the heat, of us, in me.
And she holds me and I feel chiselled in amorous fumes, in tempests of joy.
A stampede could drag my body away, I could only feel her, within me, intertwined.
My death would lose all meaning, its decaying matter, I’m in her moulding hands,
Giving birth to me, a heartbeat, renewing itself, washing away all that is dark, all that is
Suffering. To normalise this kind of devotional love is equal to slaughtering it.
I will dedicate every fibre of my soul to make it last, to not corrupt its fragility.
“Parisian Woman in a Hat” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)
Croque-Melpomene 