Wound.

He looked into her wet eyes and touched her lips with gentle breathe. He smelled her heart beat in a drop of raw human perfume. He undressed her body and her soul amazed him. Her soul was still in pain, her soul was still floating in grey clouds of “yesterday”. Her mind was still travelling though the body was there; memory was there. As they fell asleep and their skins detached, there was an intense, undoubtable feeling of a hunting presence that interfered with the absolute pain of absence. This mind was playing dangerous games. This mind was left behind. That is the definition of the soul wound. That fleshless part of the heart that still bleeds in memories of touch, taste, smell, sound, feeling. That part of our fragile self that manages to come out in the most unexpected moments, those moments that we forget to pretend, we forget that we are only humans.

“I am in love with the exquisite agony of being in love, anything else is mortal”, I said and eternity seemed to be only a dream, one of those that still keep me anticipating closing my eyes, surrendering to nothing less than fluffy dreamy clouds of love.

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