Marks of war

 In a cafe I heard two women making fun of the stretch marks on the belly of an absent woman. I felt you like this morning, naked, wearing only your earrings. And I remembered your stretch marks, war scars that on your body are proof of the sweat, tears and blood shed in life, marks left by the struggle to bring our children into the world. On the train some were disgusted by their women, again I evoked your stretch marks and I realized that they are not ugly. You don't hide them, you don't care about criticism or accusing glances, you ask me to play that my fingers are camels looking for the oasis among the dunes. Walking home, I looked at the advertisement for a cream that erases them, and I realized that they are beautiful, that I like them; that I am always hungry for you, for your ankles like buildings, for your fleshy hips and for the memory of your waist.

I want a kiss from you, I can't take it anymore, I run like crazy towards your flat and soft breasts, free of ego and banality. I have arrived, I jump up the stairs and enter. You get scared. You have that strong air that captivates young people, captivates adults and makes old people sigh. You are free to love me and allow me to eat from your precious garden, exuberant and exotic fruits of love. I kiss you, I kneel. I only think of the marks of war and for them I crawl to the depths of you.