There is …

There is the cold, silence, the weight weighing of the absence. There are these brilliant reflections on the ground like an insolence. The diffuse sound of one strolls escaping from a room. Two bodies in the evening of November pitch. There are you and me in the black. Going step by step on the same pavement. There is the obliteration of time. Who exhausts us oppressive. Leaving us only the vacuum. In which one is inserted avid. To flee the dark roofs of our city. Who do not accommodate any more our asylum. There is this concerto for piano. Slow, dark and beautiful. Who returns to me at the head. Your hand in mine like one night of festival. A long time ago. With the spellbinding pleasure. To have the memory of this soft moment like that one charming moment. There are all these short periods of life. Who linked us. Stuck ones to the others to braid the cord. On which passion was built that one agrees. There is the quivering of the air. Carrying the cold of the winter. You shiver, I feel it. Without the need to make mysteries. With time. I learned how to understand you before even hearing you. There is this stammering of an end perhaps that of a new beginning. Slowly, as the street is erased. That we lose sight of the fact, it in what we sometimes believed. There is the absence of regrets. The need to move away. Thus that must occur in all humility. Do not remain that the diffuse sound of one strolls escaping from a room. Two bodies in the evening of November pitch. For all to start again.