And I even see her hair getting wet over her neck, and the colors and her breath also appeals to me as something I love. Something I could hold with hands, but not for long. She’s resistant. When I sly my face, smooth as hers, over her cheek, she gives it up, as this texture reminds her how look-a-like we are. She crumbles as she would crumble to the one she most loves. She crumbles as she would crumble to herself.

"I approach and embrace steadily her firm and smooth body. Many colors appear and our faces - both smooth, childish faces - go closer. She touches my face and moves me an inch away, and sees me. I see her reddish skin on her cleavage. Firm, tender, fresh skin breasts.
I see her eyes, red hair under sunlight. Textures of skin, lips, rouge tones, strawberry and leave’s scents. She sees my mouth and my eyes, the contrast of blue and red vivid tones.
Slips a fingertip over my lips. I put it on my mouth with gentle and firm suction. We approach towards the kiss with her fingertips still between our mouths. It gets wet, tasty, warm.
I take off my shirt and she knows why. And that gives shivers on both of us."

Our ambitions, our personal interests, our misunderstandings are aside. No ordinary discussions are permitted. It is a moment of one dimension - it is a single battle, and the field is nothing but all there is.

Lying down, she tumbles over the bed, like a chess piece that falls doing what is right to do along the play's course.
Following her, I also lay down flowing with the continuous flux of our conversation. I hear my words, I can imagine my lip's movement and with eyes fixed on hers, I call her to realize the image: the sunray is still there through the curtains, lighting the place, and I'm golden hair on tan skin.
On that moment, the waltz gets linear arrowed to the direction of fusion.

XY2: Call me.