3. A caress. So I think and write. It was a caress. But there is a big gap between what I think and what I write, an infinite space between my intention and your perception, my hand and skin. Further away are your thoughts and feelings. I do not know if I can find for you uncertain that gesture was a touch or not, if my hand for a moment that touched your skin to convince me that you're there, flesh and bone. A caress as a bridge between the cold of the letters with you invention and you think, and the warm feel of your skin beyond all my words. A delight to convince me not to exist only here, invented with plus and minus signs arbitrary and poorly painted on the pad at the time still did not see but you were about to.
about to, like my heart and my hand were about, except I think or would like, my heart and my hand in the final minute stretch at the last second or fraction of a second longer and more frightening it can be a man and never repeats. My hand trembling on the verge of being stretched to the precarious site that occupies your arm, about to walk in fear disappears, the profile of your beautiful white skin. Your skin is no longer a shadow silhouette soothsayer, but a kind of illusion that I am afraid to break with that touch that I did not think nor wanted, but is about to happen. A point, my heart about to come up with more dreams and nightmares I would have never allowed my hand when he saw one millionth of a second faster than him, stretching to paint your uncertain and shaky at the end of the first touch of curiosity in disguise or disguise God knows what. My heart is a millionth of a second faster than your response, your reaction, now living in Einstein's nightmare all reactions, good and bad, tender and cruel, from which it could begin to write the rest of my life. My hand to point, point my heart and, above all, your face and your skin point.
Uncertainty is not hard, but enough for me to live all possible outcomes of an action that did not choose or planned, a move of my hand, my heart and your face that seems a throwback cosmic determined by the logic that governs dreams, that causality twisted where it all happens for no reason but she tries and always manages to make sense to not wake up. Imagine.
imagine that moment, if you could see with my eyes. Imagine me scared when I see my hand away and unaware of all my orders, unauthorized herald all my hopes to get a touch longer and cover it with a trivial pretext. Someday your eyes tell me seek your face to the point, perhaps expected. But I do not want the explanations later, to come to me or anyone else. I wonder what there there when your about to face, my hand almost, my heart imminent. I guess if your eyes, like mine were the hand of others coming to your arm. If your arm was there waiting for my touch way, if you noticed, if you wanted that cold and warm touch of a hand, finger trembling on the timid slip your arm. If you endured because they had no choice or if, like me, you gave a new meaning, incomprehensible.
My hand stretched nearly to get a touch in disguise, my heart just about to say I love you in silence. And your face. Your face almost smiling. Your hand on the point of going through the exact spot where the first awkward draw you knew all my strokes, our caresses. Just
that moment to be happy, but impossible to live day by the rest of life. Just a touch to it immediately and there before your eyes I wish I look without my noticing, because I have not noticed. One touch and I was about to write. I love you. After much thought, after hesitation, for accepting the desire is to accept also that there be fulfilled. I do not want it to pass. Point pen to write I love you. Your eyes are about to read that I love above the pen glides over the paper, leaving traces its ominous black. And I, for pages and pages about to write your name without daring, because the five letters that name you describe my fate is still to be written. It is time to resign and flee. Because at first simply too little to be happy, then nothing is enough.
My Hand about to get a touch. My heart about to admit I love you. Your face on the verge of a smile. Your hand about to touch an echo. My pen about to write I love you, write your name. All time confused, doubled over, curled blunt. And I before and after, but again now that he is always on what is to happen, I am about to write your name, yet I dare not. Again the sheet could be white, he was about to bring the infinite eternity in your name.
November 23, 2009
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