I wrote different versions of her. Long brown hair covering her breasts as she lay on the couch. Or knobby like mangroves sinking in the waters of her body. Wild olive skin, ebony skin, soft and tender skin to chew. Other times she had this lunar paleness that contrasted with her big dark eyebrows. Chubby lips or thin lines as if traced with a crayon. A smile would revolutionise her face and a stern expression would make her look like Helen of Troy, a gaze ready to cause wars. The curves along her hips shocked the old rhomboid ladies as they swung across the city's streets as if challenging the more conventional lines' rigidity. A different paragraph and suddenly that body took on a frail look, like a delicate twig. Passers-by would be left in shock by that alien consistency and would open their eyes wide as she passed through, hanging between the horror and a particular inhibited desire.

One thing I would never change. A pair of dark, silent eyes, deep and mysterious like the great night predating the explosion of existence. I wanted those eyes to exist forever, eyes I couldn't resist feeding myself with, day and night. I needed them like air. I would watch them blossom in the morning as she woke up, for a long time I would peek inside them as she carefully worked on the pamphlets, and then at night, I would glimpse their sparkle under the dim light of the streetlamps outside before our gasping dances died in the pleasure of the last flamenco. By now, that incredible concentration of remote shades dragged me into thoughts I couldn't control anymore. After shaping those precious spheres into something real, I felt I lost a substantial slice of my kingdom, and from then on anything could have happened. My creation had started to get the best of its creator.

Translated from the original post in Italian.