I’ll continue to be lost in my incessant thoughts of you. In rainbow dreams. In lively conversations. In the loneliest of winter afternoons, when the sun is bright and the breeze cool, and the only flower that blooms is you, on your first floor balcony eating tangerines.
In pastel coloured houses where tiny statues of gods lay discarded, forgotten and hidden behind tinted black glasses.
Nothing ever happens here. Nothing. In this monotonous afternoon, even a passing vehicle catches my attention; and so does the trajectory of a red cricket ball, and the fat child playing with it.
Everything is foggy yet I search for flowers in bushes and kites merry and yellow against the light blue sky; the veil behind which gods live, eternal, ephemeral gods who make the clouds white and the winters cold.
There was a boy once, and a girl. Both of them lived in the same white world of winter fog and empty afternoons. Both dreamed of the season of mangoes, and they were friends. One orange evening when they walked home together, the boy: who is a boy after all, said that he loves her in the tenderest of words; his heart beating fast. The girl, the girl is speechless. Happy too, but no. Of course she can’t let this happen. It’s against the whole order of things.
Would you still be here if you could go anywhere?
“… I have never been here.”