She walks me to the
front door which has been open all this while. A million years, two minutes, a lifetime. And now I can see. There was a shadow of
myself hiding under the second step. It was waiting to take, to wear again, my
shape on the wall.
There was a shadow of myself under one of this
three steps to this night. A tiny shadow of me like all my courage concentrated
in some tiny point, under this step, waiting to jump into my life like Kerouak
jumped on a train, just to continue the Road.
My courage hiding under one of this steps like
all the love in the world can hide under the head of a match, to set in some
fire in the cold winter of this absurd Friday night.
The image of all this comes from the step to
the portrait of you walking all nude to the bathroom. I am lying on the bed, enjoying the laziness, and
I turn my eyes to your shape in the door. I like your shoulders, your ass and
your ankles, and the road along your skin from ones to the others. I could lick it all, like cats lick each other to clean those invisible traces of strangers, with that tenderness,
with no hurry, with the instinct of who has nothing else to do but being, in
this morning that was hiding under the steps with my courage to suggest you to
spend the night with me, to get in this mood, when my room becomes also your
room, and yours is also mine, open wide sharing like two lions, in a broken
cage, in a forgotten zoo, somewhere, after the war.