The skin prepared, warm between the sheets.
The body quiet, waiting.
The breathing rhythm, deep.
The lover doesn´t arrive, looks like to appear but he isn´t shown.
The memory of the touch of another, drawing in the body worlds invented by both, known by none.
The weight of the own body and its solitude, accompanied by the breath without losing the step.
Outside the others, who shake the Sun each morning, even running away and covering.
The waiting, that is measures in the wish and not in the time, which seeks with despair the rubbing soft that doesn´t arrive.
Behind my bed there was a window, and the Sun though it daily to my back, never reaching to touch me.
I could imagine how wonderful would be a touch of the only possible lover in this space, which could full me, that ray of hot sun, which has no more time than a single perfect gesture.
The night made the thinking and the wish, I dreamed with clouds and rain that generously would hide that Sun that I couldn´t reach.
Outside it was Summer.