On the fingers of her flute, You play the melodies of Eros. In the tears of her pure drops, You hear bird voices. Sweet languishing pain....... Is it worth it, boy? Musically in love with a copper finger-ring. Hormones and blood leap, run faster through the veins, Let's play love Until a change comes to us. So from the looks that set the tone for Her, candles melt. Everything works in unison. Support her by the shoulders. Later on the old couch, Muscles and looks will become softer. You are already far away, as in nirvana. Relax lying nearby. Forgetting everything that is mortal, You laugh, swearing badly, Will again become the strings of a vein, We'll play love, since alive.
# On the Fingers of Her Flute She holds the flute like a small bird that has learned to sing inside her palms— each finger knows its own dark hole, its own small secret. The music rises not from wood or reed, but from the spaces between her knuckles, from the tender architecture of what holds and releases, holds and releases. Listen: it is the sound of a woman teaching her body to speak in intervals, in the distances between one breath and the next. Her fingers dance as though they remember something her mind has forgotten— a language older than words, written in the grammar of touch. And the flute, that hollow thing, becomes a throat, becomes a voice, becomes the very thing that was always singing inside the closed fist of silence. When she lowers it at last, her fingers ache with the weight of all those notes— small birds returning home to roost in the dark beneath her skin.
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