I loved you in an inky black womb. Outside, Barcelona sighed pollution from heaving lungs, laughed, wept and bickered. In our sanctum all was still, save for the movement of our limbs stretching to find a cool oasis on sheets warmed by our bodies and late summer heat. My fingertips and lips charted the deserts and terrains of your skin, crossing a rivulet of sweat that caressed the contour of your breast. You were unconquerable and I was a pale Cortes. These seconds dripped away into the ocean of my life like drops of brilliant scarlet dye. An exclamation mark in my memory.