Los Angeles – September 25, 2015

We are in Italy. Inside a converted grain silo lined with that pinkish brick found only in Venice. A stream runs through the middle of the room. I say: I’m thinking of staying the winter here. It will be cold and there is no heat in this building, you say. I ask you when you are leaving? You say you are leaving on Monday. It’s Friday.

My friend stops by at my invitation. She is tall and delicate and lonely. A poetess. She and I had made love one night after some wine. Her breasts were tender medallions, translucent and excited. I introduce you two and leave you together, wondering if you will have each other.

In the adjacent cavernous white room, I wonder where the art should go. Then I feel you come in, followed by her. She says goodbye and you barely reply without taking your eyes off me. I can’t stop looking at you.

We slowly circle each other around a pregnant, pulsating field. Our bodies creating it and yet barely contain it. I say to you: you should either stay in the kitchen or get out. Your eyes are calm but penetrating as you take a few more steps around the circle. And then you cross the explosive/mine/energy field towards me in one decisive move. I expect you to go up in flames. To turn to smoke. To ash. To stone. But you don’t. You reach for my hands, dangling next to my hips. You interlace your fingers with mine and with measured but firm steps, walk me backwards until I feel my back against the cool, hard wall. Then you push your hips into mine and kiss me hard on my mouth. I feel the blood drain from our heads and your palms meld into mine. We are each other’s.

And then I wake up.

Berlin – September 23, 2015

Los Angeles – September 26, 2015