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John Atkinson Grimshaw. “The lovers”.

I liked her skin. It was smooth, as a breeze shivering the subtle foliage of leafy valleys in spring time. It burnt with a soft texture of winter embers besieged by the cold blanket of the night, as soon as my lips touched it and sunk in the fastness of her neck, rummaging into the deepness of an uneasy sleeping, where she seemed to tremble at the edge of pleasure or frenzy. Every night, crouched under the cloak of darkness that fanned between the dimmest hour and the edge of dawn, I looked for feeling the throbbing roar of her blood trapped among the lintels of the most profound dream. Then my hands, my arms, my chest, my whole body slipped inside slowly, enfolding hers as a silent mist clings to the boundaries of every single thing, taking off every veil, every layer of cloth, until undressing the vibrant epidermis moistened by lunar dew.
Did she ever presage me? In the fathomless ravine of her reveries, was she reached by the mild whisper of my voice intoning immemorial anthems, inflamed by ancient passions? Did she perceive the longing crackle of my hands over the skin of her breasts, beneath the voluptuous curve of her waist? Maybe my mouth was engraved on the exquisite creases of her neck, as an indelible trim of fire, an invisible blaze burning the most inscrutable corners of her fantasies. Inapprehensible. Unspeakable. A dark, panting fever upon her chest, pushing her nude body beyond the cell of the sheets, in a voiceless scream made of arms and hands stretching in the gloom and calling out, searching out blindly.
“She is raving”, they said. “She is dying.” Dying? It was not death. It was life. At last, life hosting in the pallor of her limbs, in the contorted shape of her body, in the warm coldness of her hands. Here, among the enervating loneliness of the night, when everything sleeps and is diluted into the shadows, our hour starts. Before darkness be abated, I will have gone, for the last time, through the smoothness of her skin, reclined and neglected in this bleak room. In one last kiss I will sink my lips in her sweet flesh, and in one last death rattle she will clutch at me, once more and forever.
And it shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying. Then I will wait patiently, hidden into the dense murk, that under the sacred sine of the ground her body recalls the yearning for some hands and some lips. That she finds her way through roots and stones. That her eyes, open as two wildfires to the darkness, shine and look at me, with the fierceness of an endless thirst. And that her mouth grins at me, feline, and whispers in an immortal panting: “I’m hungry”.