by Nicolas Rojas Preciado
Radio Show Manager
One of those many nights I looked beyond the dark silhouettes that hid in the dew. They gamboled while droplets came together and broke apart; they danced to the leftovers of the nightlife and enfolded in perfect symmetries without much effort. Those dark silhouettes were carried under the moonlight and drafted the lanes of condensed water while smoothly descending from the blade to the petiole in each frond. After every descent, their edges narrowed, and the smatterings of liquid rubbed their backs. It only took a glimmer of light to dissipate the accumulated liquor into the humidity of those two shapes, those two fragmented memories of love, passion and lust that remained silent, unknown, distant.
Your shadow on my figure or your figure on my shadow. That could have been us dancing the melodies of our solitudes in the wild, under the transitional skies of intense darkness and light. It could have been us letting our bodies come closer after days of walking side by side, after days of just letting our eyes and tones make conversation while our hands were keen on feeling the touch of the other. It could have been us, but while the silhouettes were carried under the moonlight on the outside, the air on the inside was so dense and heavy that it hurt, filthy air pressing down the dry skin on your hands, running deeper in my veins and drying our lips out.
One of those many days our words were consumed in the vacuum and the texture of your skin vanished from my fingertips, or so I felt it. I had never held you in my arms and felt your skin sliding on mine as those silhouettes, descending one after the other while rain accumulated at the outside of our rooms. Sitting there, one of those many days, nothing mattered, I desired to feel your body softly losing balance while my arms crossed your shadow and I could only hope for my hands to be the light wind on your waist.
Somehow, that day, as any other day in which our words collided in a fictitious parallelism of thought and language, minutes felt like winters and hours were never hours but years. I convinced myself that if I had known you for an eternity, perhaps the attempt for infinitude obliterated from my mouth the taste of your lips, from my chest the parsimony of your breath, and from my sight, that soft movement of disruption that your little finger perpetuated along your line of expression every time your hands came together in long attempts of concentration and patience.
After all that never existed had evaporated, I learned to live in the monotonous contemplations of our singularities and you in the flatness of those thousand verses eclipsed in a photographic reel waiting for movement; but then, at that spot, your smile undressed the autumn trees, and the falling leaflets, one by one, stole a scintilla of your reticence; you laughed and I observed the most delicate and elegant portrait of delight, authenticity and beauty. You were waiting and so was I. We wanted it all but needed nothing. There was no time, there was no eternity, no years, nothing. I was waiting and so were you. We wanted it all but needed nothing.
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