Your feet bear the promise of freedom
as I rest my lips on them.
They carry so many stories of faraway journeys,
some of them that have passed,
others that will come to pass.
What roads will they roam?
And will they bring you back to me?
We have the same birthday,
my dear time traveler,
35 years apart.
Meet me again. And again.
I am sitting in the living room, resting in the imponderability of this cold darkness as if floating in mid air. Numbness fills my limbs, crashed on that old couch. Trying to get used to the absence of light, my eyes pause and rest a bit on a dimly lit square on the wall.
Suddenly, someone’s profile passes in front of it. I recognize him. It’s been ten years. I jump to my feet and go out on the porch. My head moves left and right a few times looking for his tall, thin figure, but there is no sight of him any longer. I see two other men downstairs, chatting in the yard, under the open sky, in that strange night light that wipes away details and contrasts, turning each silhouette into a deep shadow which you risk getting sucked up into.
I seem to have something like an orange in my hand and keep trying to throw it at those people in several failed attempts to get their attention. They can’t hear me calling out and my arm seems so airy, so light and so transparent, it’s the shadow of the shadow of an arm. And it refuses to obey. My movements lack strength and seem more like gusts of wind gently swinging a curtain hanging at an open window on a peaceful summer night.
That’s when I realize I am dead.