There is a hollow shaped by the body

On the worn-out mattress, there is a hollow shaped by the body.

With hands embraced by sleep, the mould is meticulously crafted by the breath of absence.

Now, the golden shadow of the afternoon dances along the already weathered lime of the walls, dissolving into the first drops of April rain, like bodies floating in excessively brackish waters. The waiting for the one who slipped away among the remnants of the vessel is now reduced to the sum of minutes multiplied into promises of sober mornings that at times swell, at times run dry.

We have a river of fire along our dark house of silences that the breeze, with eyes systematically out of focus and a face rigid as the steel of machines, cannot pierce. The premature blaze spreading through the disarray of the orchard, with its raw and overgrown vegetation, announces the death of the sun in a kind of suffocated cry, dragging with it torrid mutations of outlines that the hoarse memory gradually unmoored from the quay.

On the worn-out mattress, there is a hollow shaped by the body.

Like a rooted island that the chance of steep tides we once swore we had climbed in an intertwining of fingers had brought near the ledge of sparse moss, where days die for each night, and nights fall silent for each day.