Melancholic

This evening, we will walk in the streets of the city. Without goal. Carried by the wind of the winter. Pushed by the cold of the mountains. We, we will hide under a porch to avoid the snow-covered breath. To kiss us. The lights of festival will trace the way of our steps. Between the high stone walls. In front of the rare still enlightened windows. We will go from a slow step. Each day, we will run. All the time. Praise of slowness. Hope of softness. We will enter a soft torpor. Stuck one to the other, we will slip like phantoms on the brilliant ground. Our shades will not be able there to be reflected. This evening, we decided that we will be invisible. Alone. Irresistibly alone. To share this moment. Simply. Single. Melancholic.