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The woman. A world, mysterious and enigmatic.
What does she think? What does she feel? And what are we without them?
Nothing.
I always looked for the possibility to get closer to them.
Only in Tango we could meet.
Only in the short and warm sigh, intense and fragile, of the dance.
And afterwards… Afterwards only the memory.
She was looking at me. Deep in my eyes, thinking that she would find my dance in there, my Tango.
Until we would find that magical moment of trance, in which we were not just two bodies dancing,
but two soul mates brought together through Tango, that were looking at each other through their hearts.
And our eyes were not ours anymore,
but they transformed into the mirror of our union.
She never knew which shoes to wear for our Tango.
Those with the red color of blood, or those the color of the deep blue sea.
Or the new golden ones, those that you never wore.
She always ended up with the same decision. The low, worn shoes, that looked like the extension of your flexible legs.
Those that perfectly fit the sensual shape of your feet,
adapting to and embracing them, just like two gloves.
Those low shoes told her story.
And now you see me sitting here. Searching for you in in every woman that dances with me.
*** dance of hands and feet.
Hips and sensual lips that play to touch each other, without ever doing so.
Searching, in the end, behind the walls that you left after leaving,
for the beating of your absent heart.