On The Nape Of The Neck

Something

Both delicate and strong

Just there
On the nape of the neck

In the unique

Powerful silence

Of contemplation

Eyes and arms

Around
Meaningful shoulders

Full of sense

And sensual callings

Vanishing
In despair

Anticipating

The salty

Stolen kiss

A land where to travel

A land where to free you

Or enslave you

In a wish

Teasing

The Beauty

Of the moment

Tasting

Infinity
Upon some lips

Of Desire

Reflected in

Never satisfied
Eyes

Love

Licked and lacked

Momentarily postponed

Suspended on a breath

Indefinite duration

Sealed with the blue ink

Of Passion

Curves
Offered

To receive

The painful kiss

The perfect holy sanction

Delivered 

Out of the light

And into

Darkness

A land to explore

Beyond the borders

Of ourselves

Bodies and souls

Transported

Beyond

Good and Evil

A timeless Bliss

Suspended

In its cold and warm

Transcendant 

Waves

Timelessness

The timelessness of things which sometimes reduces the facts to a tiny fraction of a second.Like a flash or a furtive grain of sand gobbled up in the immense ocean of an hourglass in the infinity.
Or sometimes, on the contrary, time diluted, stretched, extended, immortalized, turned toward infinity. Until it becomes in our memory, similar to a long and meaningful river.
The meaning that we give to it, or the words that we've been given. 
So, I do not really know any more if the sun shone this day and if the heaviness of the silence was gobbled up forever or if it still remains..
I do not really know which words actually went out of my mouth and who stopped them. I do not really know what my eyes really saw.
There is no other time than the one that we name with our own empirical instruments. The one that the man himself starts up and the one that his hand stops.
My story is not 'one', it is multiple. It is anchored in Time as it is simultaneously detached from it. One single moment can seem to extend over an eternity or to almost vanish in our memory, as furtively as a wink.
There are no stories. No History either. There are punctual, juxtaposed facts. Lived and felt. Mixed some with the others. Leaving a print. Rather belonging to our memory and what it makes of them.
What remains is certainly related to the certainty or the confusion of the feelings.
Our memory, our history. This fuzzy mirror of our soul.
Our story, a myth 'reconstructed' in the light of our more or less abashed memories, that we consider sometimes as real. Firmly, like a stubborn religion sacrificing our reconstructed and re-appropriated self.
We stand outside any chronological logic. Becoming a logic in itself of ourselves.

Travelling

Whispered words

And a thousand thoughts

Are my travelling

Companions

I hear them

Singing in my ears

A song

Of sweet freedom

Stretching over

A newly born

Horizon

I see

Through your eyes

And mine

Again and again

The fathomless

Meaning

Of the sea

I see

The questions

That have
No answers

Like waves
Stretching
Rolling

endlessly brought back

To the shore

I see

The untold stories

The unheard songs

The reflections upon

The red walls

I see

In black and white

And in color

The incomparable

Beauty
The inconsolable
Pains

Through walking

And walking

And walking

I understand

How much

I can embrace

I know

The measure

of a treasure

Diving into

Pleasure

In so far as

I can't reach

Those mysteriously

Dark clear eyes

An enigma

Fixed in a present

And in a past

that escape me

Belonging to

Parallel

Foreign worlds

Two oceans swimming

Into each other's movement

Joining

In a bliss

Juggling

Within

The magnificent

Almighty

Ambiguïty

A silent conversation

Pure

Entireness

Of silence

Silence

Containing all

The silences

Of our souls

The storms

The whispers

And the cries

The dream

Unfolding

And melting

In an harmonious

Recognition

Everything

But nothingness

A full box

Of silent

Conversations

A weaving of

Colourful words

Melting

In transgression

Tireless

Words

Perfectly tuned

And balanced

Making love

To one another

In a symphony

Of wonder

Words

Never in solitude

In loneliness

Maybe

Like the sweet touch

Of velvet on the skin

Language

Reunified

Into the abysses

Of an absence