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To you...
Tell me.
Tell me that this is not the same story.
The one that I have heard so many times.
Where are you?
Where the search ends.
I can perceive you as a vague silhouette.
Where are you?
How am I reflected in your eyes?
You are walking. Walking towards me.
You are ceasing to be the other.
You are defining yourself.
Dreaming.
Sparkling.
You are finally here
Or maybe you have returned
so new
yet so familiar
like the caress that has guided me since I was a child.
Our words
Your way of laughing
Our way of learning
The silent complicity that fills us with light
The path stretching out before us
your hand in mine
Your gaze, making me something that I never was
That feeling…
The certainty that, like migratory birds, we know the way
I love you
I love you
Now I know it.
This is not the same story
Your curves
Your crests
Your valleys
You breathe into every corner
And each of your palms gives life
I rain from you
You shelter me
Mutual certainty
Beloved silence
Shared air
The mystery slipping away
Your gaze that sometimes becomes absent
That seeks and caresses them
The suns that gradually disappear
one by one.
I love you
I love you too.
The night of the letter that I never wrote
Her words just like mine, so loving and familiar
The explanations that pour out of me
You fight with my breast
the sadness that makes us seek the other’s gaze
My hesitating step alongside yours
The wound that still bleeds
The sound of your footsteps on the staircase
the infinite sorrow of our story
the feeling of being adrift
and you so alone.
Three minimal fragments of a beloved story