Winter comes, with him, vague memories. Mist into nothingness, cold, icy rock where we dance whole nights on. Butterflies in my stomach, shortness of breath, your hands, as cold as frost, your back, the place where I shelter on. It was so cold, so warm at once. Playing, laughing, as if we were a couple of kids. As if the world did not matter, as if all problems remain under our feet. Elusives looks, we could not let anyone our secret know. Replicating confidant bells at midnight, the guardian of my door, Don't know if you will wait on the pathway again, In the middle of the woods you will take me by the hand, and we'll get lost in the dark. Nights listening to the crackle of flames, and a pair of chords lighting the shades. We were aimlessly, retracing our steps. Playing worns. Until the first ended the game.
"Detrás de este triste espectáculo de palabras, tiembla indeciblemente la esperanza de que me leas, de que no haya muerto del todo en tu memoria." Julio Cortázar.