Freefall - Lost In Heaven Francesca Bianchi 2019

Awakened in the Arms of a Satyr, a Faun…

Your sheet-covered beds are not my thing!
Nor are your pillows in the cramped bunks, where you hide when you indulge in your lonely, lustful thoughts and put more effort into concealing them - even from yourselves - than in surrendering to them and truly letting them be.
My bed is the moss. My pillow is the leaves.
I don’t need your blankets. I want to see!

Last night in the clearing, you saw me. And I saw you.
As I lay there. And you were startled. Not just because of my appearance. For I am beautiful. I am beautiful, even - no: because my goat legs and my horns bewilder you. These - and my fur.
Last night in the clearing, you smelled me - even before you saw me - I know it.
I saw how you turned away. How you wrestled with yourself. You were caught between repulsion and fascination. You turned away yet still followed that scent, that smell.
And when you then came closer to see what it was, and as I lifted my upper body, propped up on my arms, and when you ran away, I knew: You would come back.

And you are here. So quickly.

There are no roses or lilies beside my bed. That’s not my thing.
But I gladly let flowers bloom for you. Deep violet with yellow veins in their fleshy petals. Right close to the ground, where the mushrooms also grow. They only open in the dark. When the sultriness of the day transitions into the sultriness of the night. When beside the moon, the scent of this flower with its waxy sweetness marks the night. Threads of its milky white sap attract the insects. They settle on its cups and drink from the sap like nectar. Their wings are shimmering green and their buzzing dull. Sooner or later, they fall silent. For the flowers do not let them go.

Does the scent enchant you? The damp leaves, the flowers, and the moss? The mushrooms - even decay?
If all of that, then how much more me!

There you are. Close to me. So close.
Breathe me in! Do you smell like I do? Not like soap or lukewarm water. That’s for your heroes. I smell of skin and fur, which is everywhere you touch. Soft, very soft in this place. And here, bristly hard. Drops of resin in it, stuck from the trees I rubbed against. And in the beard on my chin, honey from the hives I drank from. Do you smell that? My breath close to yours. Of the vanilla oil from the pods I tore from the bushes. Bitter, because without sweetness. And of wood and bark, which I chew just to pass the time. I smell of body and everything that it is and what it takes and what it gives. Of tallow and oils.

Love is not my thing. Lust: That’s what I’m good at!
I approach you. I lower my head. And as I lower it, one of my horns touches you, right where you are most sensitive. At your side. The tip glides over your skin. Down your flank and down to your belly and down to where your belt would be. Do you shiver?

Press your face against my cheek, in the crook of my neck, at my ear, in my nape.
Smell the flowers I have rolled in. Smell the fruits I have crushed and whose juice I drank. Smell the herbs I played among and with which I rubbed myself. And smell the animals in whose dens I have lain. Smell the rain in my wet fur. Smell the traces of all desire. My desire.

And when your desire then tears you apart, it is only because you are lost in the powerless-free fall in the pitch-black sky and at the same time your fingers claw into the damp, mossy ground and because roots shoot from them, holding you to the ground, here with me. And while you fly and at the same time become one with the humus, you will call words into the trees that you do not know.

And an overwhelming scent will carry you. From flowers, from trees, from juices, from animals, from wind and grass, tanned, anointed, from sweat and smoke.

In the morning then in your bed between the rumpled blankets. You will still smell it. Soft now, a little airy, almost harmonious and nearly sweet.
Between the rumpled blankets - and you know:
In that night, it was the arms of a satyr, a faun…