I touch your mouth, with my finger I touch the edge of your lips and trace them as if they are coming out of my hand, as if your mouth is opening for the first time, it is enough to close my eyes for everything to dissolve and everything to start again, every time I create the mouth that I desire, the mouth that my hand chooses and draws on your face, a mouth chosen from all possible ones by the sovereign freedom of its own choice to draw them with my hand on your face, and which, by mere coincidence that I do not try to understand, exactly match the mouth that smiles, beneath the ones that my hand is drawing on your face. You look at me, you look at me closely, closer and closer you look at me, then we play cyclops, we look at each other from ever closer distance and our eyes grow larger, approach and merge, cyclops look at each other and breathe confusedly, and mouths meet, fight warmly, nibble with lips, barely touching teeth with tongues, play in chambers where heavy air flows bringing familiar scent and silence. Then my hands plunge into your hair, gently caress the depth of your hair as we kiss as if our mouths are full of flowers or fish, lively movements, dark fragrances. If we bite each other, that pain is sweet, if we drown in a short 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 quiver beside me like the moon on water.
Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch