Skin

I’m on the verge of slowly slipping.
It isn’t touch because it isn’t full contact.
There’s no friction. Heat flows lazily.
Sensing fingers follow its form,
accompanying the line of sight along discontinuous surfaces.
Light is the eye in its observation.
It follows uncertain angles. Unveils dark passages.
Skin flows under soft eyes.
Smooth surfaces over which time evaporates.
You can feel the vibration.
you can smell the odour.
The colour fades.
Undefined identity
                                   (elsewhere) the transformation is silent.
                                   Slowly the existence is marked. A live tattoo, recounting stories worthy of being told.
                                   Relaxed the goddess of days never passed smiles, idly wrinkled by the breath of life.
                                   Exploring gaze. Skin taut everywhere, vibrating presumed days never passed.
                                   Stage for the parody played by puppeteers of eternal youth.
                                   Modern prophets for beautiful corpses, canned food for happy worms.

M.F.