It was not autumn but drought

I have always told you that the most difficult thing in life was giving name to feelings. You do not know how much work you left me when you disappeared! These lines are blank letters which talk about nobody, although, it is ironic… this 'nobody' has your eyes; your hair in waterfall, the graceful curvature that is drawn in your back. You are nobody! And you are because I do not want to find you, in fact, I avoid it. I know how cruel your memory can be with my emotions. Even so, I cannot stop remembering you, since, in doing so, there grows the need to run again by your side, to be closer to you: to feel again yours.

That November morning, I thought that your eyes could not say so much, maybe they said exactly what I wanted. Without knowing it, I tied myself to your company and saw me, suddenly, sailing to the sea of conceptions based on my wrong perceptions; but, it was not my distorted sense of reality, nor the precipitated idealization about you what pushed me to love you. Not. At that moment, your eyes were a nightly jungle reflected in the melancholy of my pupil, and clash between the pure and the vulnerable; in the contrast of light and absence, in the sudden turn of my future woven by your steps, just then, I discovered it... I was in love.

When you love, the months always find you running through the streets, holding to the texture of a warm hand. Now it makes sense that we were always running. Deep down, we tried to escape from time or, perhaps, from ourselves. We believed that speed was the infallible formula to keep our hungry youth sealed in kilometers.

Do you remember that afternoon? The firs were naked and our steps creaked on the ocher leaves. You laughed nervously when I caught you. My arms were made for your waist. You knocked me down over the dead leaves, threw yourself on my chest and with a kiss you closed my mouth. Then your eyes lit, your smile turned on, and, almost without me realizing, your colors of fire were distorting the reality of my world. I was blind… blind of you.

Maybe that's why, in those days, I did not notice that something very deep had changed. Suddenly I understood, it came as a blow, like the child who discovers the truth without looking for it. Our speed was decreasing; decreasing. But it was too late

On that bridge, we were invisible for the speed of the cars. My sight, at the end of the road; your eyes, in the melancholy of my image. Why did not I want to see you to eyes? I think I was afraid to find the autumn hidden in them, or remember, one by one, the moments we sealed in kilometers. Your soft lips whispered a few words which broke the invisible threads that united us. Then you gave your back to me as a farewell. Did you smile while your bare hand said goodbye at every steps? I do not know. I only could stay there, in silence, seeing leave, to the sea, your sail.

It is been a long time, I cannot remember your face anymore. Is November and once again I am here, in the same streets of forgotten smiles and infinite memories: waiting for you. Sure, you do not know, how could? I sing to the life with the voice that does not reach your ear, and the echo of my rusty memories desperately searches, in your lips, the life. Why are they looking for you, if you are dead? If you think about it, death, by extension, is an absence; but, is not absence also another type of death? Of course! There is the answer. How selfish I feel trying to find you when what I should do is throw a carnation to the sepulcher of your memory!

My soul became old from so much running with you, honey! Now I must dress in mourning to justify my sadness. I know that every day your portrait of my mind will disappear: your soft expressions, the watercolor smile, and this false autumn that your eyes gave me, because, deep inside, they were always drought.