Illogical things

If I am not a spirit like you. And I always had the damned custom of crawling over dust as a snake, going thousands ways to find your fingerprints, knowing that you may have wings.
And yet, when I was feeling blood in my knees and had scratches in my hands because of stones; I saw you in most every corner. Laying down with sand up to my nose, I was searching for you on each land I went and I had to be conformed with time and the wait of a clock with roots.
Buried always in mud, from the fund where fire is the beginning, sprouted from a salty hole my woman's body with thirst of your hands. Strong desires to feel you inside me when I was looking for your water in thousand rivers. I could smelled you thousand years before you had not even been born. Even when you had not existed.
My arms grieve. On my knees. Naked. With sand and mud, wetting and always dry. I weaved in seven dreams with golden ink your picture in my skin to recognize you when I see you.
And thought every night your lips on mine, your tongue in my saliva and my tongue in your mouth. Your fingers among mine, your eyes in my faults, your groans in my hearing, your heat on my beatings, your fears in my caresses, your pleasures among my sheets.
Your weight on my body.
I linked from your back my mud and I tied you with words to my bed. I rubbed your leg with my waist. I crawled very slowly to your feet and let myself fall down from the abyss up to finding your craziness. I gave you a book of pleasures, and kissed your shadow. I looked for shivers and gave them to you. Adrenaline of my hands, caresses in your pores, I got excited hundred times thinking about having you..
Perspiration against perspiration. I kissed salt of tears from your eyes, and looked for your pretenses and sensations for not losing you. I gave you my body of mud, consumed and injured. My rusty caresses, this urgent need of touching you. Thousand years waiting.