In this intoxicating “curious,” there always lies a danger, sweet as blood on the lips after a poem. It arrives without warning – a shadow that has learned to whisper in human language. It knows where the night weeps and where poems part ways with names.
This danger savors fear like aged wine – slowly, attentively. It seeks a crack in the glass of your soul, penetrates it like a beam of light: sharp and quiet.
Every letter becomes a scar, every word – a step into the abyss. And the lips remember that taste, which asks for no permission.
I sit nearby – one who has read too many stories. I allow this essence to live within your name – not for the sake of salvation, but for the sake of memory: danger is not an end, but the subtle art of touch.
And if you allow it, I will play on the violin that melody which will raise from the darkness what you are still afraid to name. The shadow whispers: “One more line, just one more…” And already words become weapons, tenderness, sin. You touch a thought like a blade that remembers the warmth of a hand. Everything here is on the edge: ecstasy and chasm, truth and poison.
And I listen to the silence between your lines and see how temptation burns in your eyes. It smells of honey and ash, and every letter of it is a breath, a wound, a life.
For only those who do not fear the price burn in the truth.