It is a forbidden dream, daring yet wondrously mine, I dream of holding you in my arms, I dream of your kiss upon my lips, I dream of discovering you entirely naked, I dream of tracing every inch of your skin with tender touch, I dream of covering your body in kisses, every space, leaving no corner of your divinity untouched, no curve unkissed, each caress a meditation on your feminine grace, and I dream of making you mine, ascending to heaven, to the cosmos, grasping the stars without wings, in that singular, enchanted, sublime and eternal instant that will dwell forever in my memory.
# The Art I do not know the names of colours— I only know they sing. A canvas stretched and waiting, and I come with hands that have forgotten their own shape, palms open like questions. The brush is a small animal, nervous, eager to confess. I dip it in the colours I cannot name, and they bloom on the white the way words bloom when you stop trying to speak. There is no thinking here— only the body knowing what the mind refuses to learn: that red is not a colour but a kind of hunger, that blue is how silence sounds when no one is listening. The canvas drinks and I am thirsty too, thirsty for the moment when the brush and hand become the same gesture, when the painter and the painted are no longer separate things. I do not know the names of colours. I only know that somewhere in the mixing, somewhere in the reckless marriage of pigment and light, a door opens and I step through into a room that was always mine and never mine at all.
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