If I were a body part I would be a freckle

Not a mole. Not a cluster of freckles. One freckle. A beauty mark. A spot.

Not a pair of eyes, which are the windows of the soul, and the telescopes to all the emotions. Nor the hands, strong and decided, that help you win the bread, nor the sweat of your brow, nor the pumping heart that keeps you alive (and tells you which person it has decided to love). Not even the brain, which hides the entire symphony of life, in all its complexity and beauty. No.

I'd be a freckle. Small, precise, totally unnecessary and exquisitely unique. I would brand with honor the smallness of my territory. Proud and definitive like the period that marks the end of a love note. I would hide in an insignificant, delicious, intimate place. Behind the ear perhaps. Between the thighs, on the little finger, on the lower back. And thanks to me that ear, those thighs, that finger, or that back would be unique in the world. I think about the level of intimacy that I should have with myself, or another human being, to have the pleasure of discovering a new freckle. As if the body itself whispered little secrets. Think about it.

Something flutters with pleasure in my stomach just by thinking that there is a place in my body, or his, that I, and only I know, and if they showed me all pinkies in the world, or thighs, or lower backs, only you and I would smile with succulent complicity knowing that that one there is you, and this one here is me.