One day perhaps…

I arrived at the end of the road, vis-a-vis the door of your garden. There is the entry of your home to far. I exaggerate, so near, too near. Some steps yet, I will be ready of you, finding our practices, sinking in the routine. Fire in the chimney, the night which falls outside, the flames which light our faces. Above, shades, too many shades. I don’t they manage any more to see the forms of your smiles, are contracted or slackened? I do not want any more to look at them. They are not any more that one deep past because the flames of the chimney created the repetition, monotony, lassitude, crumbling, carbonizing our passion. I understood it with this desire for leaving which attacks me. I did not manage to define it. I sought without finding. Then, there, now, at this moment in front of the garden, at the end of the road, I cannot advance any more. I want to move back. I do not have any more a force. However, front, I entered while running, you in my arms throwing you. What did it arrive to us? Not, it is not the good question. What will we become? Will we pour in the management of our misery? I will not like to know that you have pity for me. It is what I feel for you. I hate shame of it. I do not want that you read it on my face with the contracted smiles. I hide at the bottom of the armchair, avoiding the glares of the flames which badger me. I want only the night, the black, to hide, not to find the way, to lose themselves more, not to enter, that my absence is justified. But, I do not have this force. One day, perhaps…