You do not know when love begins.
With which movement, with which silence.
A lit candle, a music piece.
You do not know when it happens.
You do know though when it happened.
You think that love is not of the present.
It is too a piece of humanity.
A piece that society harms
but it does not touch.
Thus the dance piece
became vertical love.
Thus you feel that the instant
is a piece of immortality.
There are no longer figures.
Only body.
Oscillation.
Coordination.
The passion becomes desire.
There are no longer caresses.
There are no longer surfaces.
Only love.
Only depth.
You do not adore.
You live.
Because there is no other way.
That moment, the world is one.
Without beginning, without end.
Suspended.
Vertical love is such.
A rare encounter
of depth with the suspended.