And I believe you …

You say that there is no more music in your head. That your life is stretched without end beyond your memories. That your heart is wearied to beat to the rhythm of meanders of your existence. I listen to you. To only hear you in this long corridor of your absences. There are sometimes so many silences. Who have the weight of sentences. Carrying in them the cold of this frozen sun which shines all over there. In the big room of ball. There, where you liked to whirl. There, where I met you. In your bluish dress. It is this memory which I took along. Who carries me, makes me pitch. Avoiding drowning me. In the black colours of your glances. But it is too late. To believe that this sun which is stretched on the parquet floor. Is our last summer. A long time ago that it was deleted. Making us beings without future and past. Evaporated that nobody sees passing. We, we speak without us to touch. Without remembering. Heat, of its softness, its effects. On our stuck skins. That makes you cry. I cannot prevent you from pouring these tears. That nobody sees. It is our drama. Poor phantoms. You say that there is no more music in your head. And, I believe you.