You’re still alone in your skin.
Always without full stops.
Burying one layer over the other.
Forgetting how to let them breathe.
Avoiding all movement.
I am looking for you, desperately, in all corners.
Of mine. Always.
I hold on to the life in your voice in my head.
Amongst a deserted battlefield of excommunicated voices,
I raise yours above my head, highlight it on an invisible altar.
I imagine your inimitable step next to mine.
The abandoned red glasses. The needlessness of fallen objects.
From your body to my hands, to my memory, to every longing cell.
What were you thinking of when you looked out of the window?
I stare at your face now everywhere I go.
The texture of your hands, the unconditional opening of your arms.
I inhale the scent of your clothing, your skin, every time the wind strikes.
You have been here for so long, everything that belongs to you, to us,
Cannot leave easily.
“La dame au noeud vert” by Romani Juana (1867-1923)