The Promise of Us
Love words
The three days that we spent in that city.
The evenings, intoxicated by the smell of linden trees and the intimation of grace, entered our imaginations as the air fills a restless balloon.
Under the 7am cold shower the first morning blossomed into layers of rose and gold; shivering skin hoping for the warmth of a kiss.
The afternoons grew childbearing hips and spun them in the soft air; the floreo circularities of the flamenco dance.
Our candlelight dinners with their buttery taste, creamy textures, and oaked aged incantations.
The shell of our nights broken by mental possessions in front of which any other type of possession becomes superfluous.
I remember you holding in the air an unopen bottle of wine. Then, head on my knees, you cried.
Your tears trickled from my legs on the floor. The bed grew aromatic roots.
The promise of us, with its infinite ambiguity, spread through our bodies.
The city, like a gigantic swan, deserted its breeding nest.
It left us to the mercy of an inexplicable love.
Oh, yes, my love.
Oh, yes.
