Lin Octa walked away with her head in the clouds.
He always watched her leave.
Go away, never satisfied, always dreaming.
He couldn’t break the spell.
Lindell’s eyes never rested on his skin.
Her hands are impatient wanderers.
They don’t know what they’re looking for.
She leans in and then retires.
Octavia rushes through the scent his body dissipates.
It doesn’t stick, it swirls around, restless, her shoulder an abyss.
When he puts his arms around her, she turns her head.
Falling into nothingness, crying with her teeth clenched.
He doesn’t understand that she is unable to feel his admiration.
He can’t break through and she sinks into his chest.
Looking to counteract her despair.
Pretending not to cry.
He was in love with Lindell Octavia, but couldn’t cure her sadness.
Her distance. Her far away mind. Her face in her own hands.
A woman who doesn’t care about traffic lights.
Lin Octa, his disappeared lover, always looking outside of the frame on photographs.
“Portrait of Jeanne Meunier” by Constantin Meunier (1831-1905)