The call of the last kiss

There is an image which returns unceasingly as a door which is not able to be closed again. Rubbed, used on the chess-board of the regrets, the rejected words, the thoughts built without being delivered. Out of fear of not being understood or simply by cowardice.  There is this image of a face which from goes away, that nothing does not retain.Not even a memory, a tear, an epic of the hand. There weighs this impossibility in heaviness forced to remain spectator. Victim of an absorption, of a reclusion in a space time when slowness infiltrates. To see dissipating itself behind the clouds of the memory. The promptness of a glance, the light of a smile, the momentary reflection of happiness. There remain nothing or if little to choose between hope or despair. There is so much to rebuild, fill the vacuum, to make up the scars to be juggled with the artifices of the day and the evening. It bathes like impotence around pocket of resistance. Who lights the light of the wrapped memory of the lapse of memory of the years. Without tolerance in a total dependence. This wire impossible to tend between reality and the past. Half-compartment at the time to connect it. Who however always seeks to connect himself. Beyond the fog, out-of-date and frozen images. In the posture of statues planted in the commemoration of an abandoned idea. At the moment when the veil rose, carrying their secrecies. Leaving only the memory of a set ablaze glance, the call of the last kiss. There was only him for giving him.