RIC: Were you Mirza Ghalib in your last life?
FCL: I’ve been every woman of every lifetime
RIC: What is love to you? Love?
FCL: I look for it, I touched it with the tip of my finger, the tip of my lips, and it escaped me.
RIC: If you had a bakery, what would you sell?
FCL: Your breasts, in brioche, to lick, to chew, to devour.
RIC: Lisbon or Cancun?
FCL: Lisbon, at night, in a bed, no blanket, no pillow, just a sheet that you know will be stained in the morning. Very stained.
RIC: Mozzarella or Burrata?
FCL: Both, with the milk from your breasts
RIC: Please share with us the recipe of your favourite Sri Lankan dish.
FCL: The honey of your lips, the salt of your tears, the iron of your vagina, the sugar of your breasts.
RIC: If you could learn one dance in life, which one would you learn?
FCL: The one where I enter and leave you, in rhythm, the one where you wrap yourself around me, that you tighten around this part of me, in rhythm, where I melt into you, in rhythm.
RIC: If you were not a poet, what would you be?
FCL: The poet’s lover
RIC: What is a soul?
FCL: What I lose when I’m inside you.
RIC: Your views on death.
FCL: The little one is the prettiest. The one, the only.
RIC: If money was not a concern, which is one thing you would have bought for your house?
FCL: I would find your blue sapphire to hang it around your neck, let it be between your two bare breasts, as my only garment, and I would love you for hours.
RIC: In memory of a Sufi patient, please define life in two words.
FCL: Love me.
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