OUR BOAT RIDE that summer across this little island, beneath which, legends say, lay an ancient city buried by the the great seismic wave that drowned Atlantis. I was reading your favorite lines for eternal youth, you were lying naked on the stern. We were dreamers then and our pathos eternal. Our sweating bodies and minds upon the burning sand, tasting our welcomed saltiness. Your smell I adored. Eros and behind us the forest, you are the forest.
It was late but we both loved late, still do. You knew I loved my solitude. My dancing brushes will win me from you, my constant absence was present, even during this beautiful carnal scene in ?Hiroshima. Mon Amour? we watched together, even then, my absence could not be shared, you tried, penetrating my mind, telling more about this strange monologue, you recall the sound of your teardrops everytime I would mention: Johannesburg my city?
That specific night after the train station scene, we tasted ambrosia and you wore the moon, while I whispered excerpts from Marguerite Duras? monologue. You understood why , after death I would slip though the mirror of my paternal home. We could not, did not, avoid the dusk with the impetuous intimacy, Eliana?s song of barmy railway stations, and I, nowhere to find refuge, falling asleep in the hands of the blind. The end came unforeseen, the smoke was calling me above the station?Times were sombre, dramas were silently played on scattered bridges. The sorrow of old rebellions and oh! Johannesburg , my city. At times like these, how could I be reading ?In Search of Lost Time??
May I carry on?are you still there?
Often at nights I would arrive in this other city, an empty city. An old man, the sole presence lived there dreaming of being a musician, an imaginary violin on his knees, covered by his coat. ?You listening?? he asked. ?Yes? I answered, ?I have always listened to it.? While this statue was telling the birds the whole story. I will, my love, one day, tell you the whole story too. For now, let us gaze at the Aegean. Let us observe these centuries in a happy retrospective.
I stood in the center of the room gazing the Unachievable.
This mysterious silence, as though bringing down the curtain for an unmentionable deed. At nights we would capture the infinite, with sloppy words of prayer, as many forgetful enigmatic friendships. These tiny riddles will never be our past. Corfu, in bed, our mutual whisper, you asked why. Why? In my sleep I attend these odd meetings to join people and blurry faces I lost at some night ambush.
from the book “Facets of Friendship”
you may order it at Amazon.com or bn.comÂ