I touch your mouth, with my finger I touch the edge of your lips and outline them as if they are coming out of my hand, as if your mouth is opening for the first time, it is enough for me to close my eyes for everything to dissolve and start again, each time I create the mouth that I desire, the mouth that my hand chooses and draws on your face, the mouth chosen from all possible with the sovereign freedom of my own choice to draw them on your face with my hand, and which, by sheer chance that I do not try to understand, coincide exactly with the mouth that smiles, beneath the ones my hand is drawing on your face. You look at me, you look at me closely, you look at me closer and closer, then we play Cyclops, we look at each other from an ever closer distance and our eyes grow larger, they come closer and blend, the Cyclops look at each other and breathe confusedly, and the mouths meet, they struggle warmly, nibble with lips, barely touch tongues to teeth, play in chambers where heavy air flows bringing familiar scents and silence. Then my hands sink into your hair, gently stroking the depth of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths are full of flowers or fish, of lively movements, dark fragrances. If we bite each other, that pain is sweet, if we drown in the brief but terrifying and simultaneous gasp for breath, that momentary death is beautiful. And there is only one juice from the mouth and only one taste of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble beside me like the moon on water.

Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch