eyes that seA me

his eyes are the colour of a warm river.
i look inside them
- i dare to dive in without him knowing,
or you,
only me alone in his sea,
with no other permission than the assurance
that he loves me and wants me, inside -,
and i see him,
i know him,
the little boy who wants to give me his hand,
and love,
and life.


from our life there aren't even photographs.
that's what we chose, felt, did.
with no photographs or witnesses, you and i alone in the divine and infinite love thought, believed, to be ours.
the same whose mortality and humanity scared you off and made you hide from life.
like we did with the photographs, once...

that's good.
for the photographs would make everything a lot more difficult, more real, harder,
now.
this way it's like we had never gone beyond the dream.

and it's ok that you have images, memories in black and colour and white, of your other, first life, as much as, before me. us.
it's ok...



he has baby eyes, the colour of summer.
and shy words that call me to life.



and i don't mind knowing it was a lie, all a lie, we were never infinite, us, you and me. i wouldn't be with him like this, letting him sit close, come closer, so much more than you do, now and.
because our love is over.
as much as - you know it like i do - all the university, all of it, was on our side when.


his eyes are green.
blue.
clear
and dark.

and the sea won't die if i don't hear your voice.


and the sun won't stop coming out with the day.
everyday.


everything,
everything exists,
breathes,
lives,
without you.


life goes on without us.

as if.

as you.

as me,
now.


to whom he tries to look inside,
in eyes of a deep blue,
liquid of tenderness and future.

(image: nude, looking over her right shoulder, by amadeo modigliani)