A white shirt and the sand, fortunately without holes, at least on Easter Monday. Arms crossed, pants are too long, without taking my shoes off. An early train, but we’re not tired, for sure not like when we go to school.
I smile, you smile.
We’ll never like each other, not even when we end up falling in love.
But now only our shoulders talk, in the sun, in the heat. At noon of an almost summer, in which you can’t see, you really can’t tell what’s going to happen. But you feel its knot, you feel that strange confusion inside.
Hands that talk, ears that quickly exchange words and notes, mouths that unwrap improvised sandwiches and drink bubbles.
If I think that now you’re not answering, I realize this is all I’m left with.
A painting of crumpled colors.
