The train seems to be the furthest place in the world as it begins its journey, leaving the station behind, fading into water due to the effect of heat. I feel how each pedal stroke of the wagon picking up speed accelerates the memories of a weekend that I have shared with you from a distance.
The fields, roads and clouds pass like snapshots of a slideshow in which the most special moments of these last days are enclosed and I can almost feel the same racing heart every time I found a new clue of that message encrypted in gestures that we used to trade.
I see your leisurely walk between the columns of the cloister, distant and unnoticed, camouflaged in the nocturnal gloom, sometimes bathed in fine lunar glows, sometimes hidden behind the indefinite silhouettes of people, who, wrapped in conversations, cannot break the devoted silence of your Steps.
I tenderly observe the recollection of your thoughts, the concentration on your reflections, the simplicity of your hands gathered on your lap while you fix your gaze straight ahead, on the origin and destination of your fervor.
I look at the sweetness of your sips like soft kisses marked on the skin of the cup of coffee that you savor and I am sorry not to pretend that my cup is empty to pass by your side on the way to refill it and to launch a whisper that touches your ears how beautiful that you were today.
But I feel that it was not the moment, that precipitation was the greatest damage we could do to ourselves, that words would only hinder a path that we have already begun and that I am sure that one day we will travel together.
That is why and before Sunday is over I want to tell you that I need to be well prepared to be able to give you my life, that I no longer care about time, because I have understood that eternity is not measured in seconds, that I do not care about distance if I know that I can be by your side just thinking of you. I have finally learned that there is nothing (and no one) to stop this from happening if we rest our trust in their hands.
