Implosion at the surface

I am the stories that flow untold. in close touching prospect.
Understanding revolves intensities and strengths, very many, very much.
I wish I could fold this sunset as if. as if it were a future book or a past hand on my perspiring postmythic lives.
I would cover the ruins of your many nightly bodies with my bare orange-yellow-blue lips, the stratified skin of my lips, veiled and unveiled according to the random gusts of wind.
There is nothing tragic in the wind but a possible communion with birds. boiling oxygen. partly in pursuit. partly in fugue.
yet writing this becomes the flesh and blood of this.
who am it? who is i? who goes and connects the forces after all. increasingly as if wounded.
no meaning. no sense. silencio. no applauses. because you sing my factories and fabrics. silencio.
no guarantee whatsoever. satisfaction surrounds the minute muscles.
at the end of the day. the major mechanism leads to the mouth. empty. as of fire. mythical fire. less empty than rocks in quest for a last caress.
touch me before the point from which nothing feels as before. please.
You remained the other riverbank located in the wild region of my unreadable articulations. Nobody can tell the unstoried veins grounded in inflammatory quests for. through. over. till. your remains need you most. so do i. to confort the shades. dense. as of flesh and iron.
A seemingly implicated life opens. please.