Our last hours

In the exaggeration of an extreme slowness. On your face the expression was born from the fear. Equipped with the cry of the fear which entrails go up until me. Face with the contracted features being spread out stretched over the cross. Marks of one throbbing pain through you. Spectator of the shade extinguishing our insurance imprisoned in the limbs of the impotence. Range by the melody afflicted with a piano plunged into mourning. Running out on the white and the black sobs of my tears. Posing in the exaggeration of an extreme slowness. On your face the iron of the fear. I see you. To move away you from me. Without you not moving. Without I not moving. Separated by this intolerable break from time. Parcelling out the truth of the moment. Lie of the lapse of memory. Paralysing our deadened memories. Rocked the notes insolentes of a piano of the autumn. Being posed on this unfertile ground where my steps reason. I remain there. Captured by the exaggeration of an extreme slowness. That I cannot retain. Beyond my pain. Inhabited of this soft one day dream to return. Further the lapse of memory remembers. Near to your face to the opened out features. Tasting the honey of an eternal passion. But, I lie myself preventing that mourning bewitches me. Seeking in the exaggeration of an extreme slowness. The softness of your heat leaving me only without your odor. Holding, in the yellowed photograph of our lives, the account of our disappeared memories. Haunted of this cry come from the bottom of the night. Bequeathed in the exaggeration of an extreme slowness. This day when the languor of the cursed piano played our last hours.