my dearest love and lost, now that I look through the lens of memory and dreams, here you find in the features of this other woman who shares his days with me and believed to be the exclusive love that I give you: he believes that roses are the doors for her, believes that the poems that I write are all for you, believe that My kisses are his own, that my body is his, the chocolates, rings, cards, earrings are his own.
Of course they are his, in the sense that physically, materially them and own them: flowers, hugs, jewelry, sweet embraces. And then the long trips, pizzas, dinners in restaurants, movies, his arm over her shoulders. But is the spirit that she has, that he could never have, because each of these gifts, every attention, every care is actually intended for you, are sacrificed on the altar of memory. In a sense, she unwittingly reads your part, indeed is nothing but an imitation, as far as his talent is not talent but only a surrogate, so that eventually there's a saying that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This is not to belittle or denigrate him - and how could I? - Given that I have reserved your role and then I have unconsciously chosen a woman who seems too much.
Now she smiles. And with the memory of your smile is what I intended. Remember? I told you it was your smile to innamorami, which I practiced in the evening to recreate the mirror. Must be entered in my deep, so that now her smile is yours. And the gestures that hour, that cut the air with his hand as they were talking, then turn over the rings on his fingers, that haunt a lock escape styling, are your gestures, your are the same way as ports, gesturing while stories of the places you've visited, people you've met. In fact, you're telling me a guy who had boarded importunate in a cafe in Marvel Street. If they knew my thoughts, who knows how to get angry, I wonder how you would feel humiliated, betrayed. He should be slamming the door, I punched storms, I massacre with a kitchen knife ... But now I observe with your eyes, asks me what's wrong. I tell you are just tired, I worked too much. I'm getting closer, as he always does in these cases. I close my eyes and massaged his temples, he kisses me and I guess it's you. For a few minutes work, but then recognizes the trick, an illusion. I open my eyes and do not love, not love, although it is showing exactly the opposite of kissing and hugging, unbuttoning her blouse. Not you, not you ...
Photo © Elise Hardy
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