True
Love Story
We
met each other one drizzly day, end of summer, under a squatted
sun.
It
smelled like fresh
relief,
due to the rain, patiently nibbling
the
ground as if thirsty;
for
love
and
trust - eyes' trust, mouth's love and maybe
tenderness,
hands' tenderness.
Sex
came, not
from
the flesh but from the soul. The soul
is
the inner inhabitant of the flesh and once touched
can
irrigate the moon, soak
the
desert in verdigris or whatever color
you
dream of, believe
and
so it happens we believed, blindly, in an endless
hued
summer.
By
the end of September, the city
dressed
in gray water like suits –
tarry
streets sunk
under
introverted buses, building's frontages
decayed,
trees
whimpered
in their loneliness, doves..
no
doves were ok and people
were
getting closed
as
old cellars ready for renewal.
I
still keep her letters, in a box
she
gave me with a small
green
dragon – such was her
nickname
– inside. The dragon is gone and so is she
diluted
with time and tears.
Before
breaking apart we agreed
to
meet
unconditionally
in
a specific date, of the future.
That
day will be
tomorrow!
©
José Coelho, 2015
