For the secrets and timid the ones who loves but from the tip of their fingers. When the flesh has no purpose and hides in the frescos of the old masters.
It is not where I breathe, it is not where I Iove either.
I want to scream and tell you where the waves crushes underneath the tranquility, but you see them as well .
I realize the silence is a fury not to quarrel with so I look away into the Botticelli angels where I used to find some peace as a little girl.