You wore summer on your skin in the shadow of the breeze, which covers everything except your smile, which you hid. Lying down, with your back to the ground, you would put your gaze on the azure blue eye that looks at everything, that blinks, that gets irritated, clouded and cries.
Hugging your chest, a paper butterfly slept, titled as one of those novels that make fools of girls, that make boys compete against ridiculous illusions badly painted in blue.
With your outstretched index finger, you undo and shape the cloud curls that a celestial sigh slowly banished to those distant places where the sun had its dwelling place. The soft greenish fur of the earth threatened to envelop you in damp comfort, making your breathing deeper and slower.
Meanwhile, on the mast of a cedar fence, I was trying to balance my body to spy on you with an adult eye, three shames away. I descended from the lookout top from which I stalked you and filled my pockets with courage to dare to invade your aura with my scruffy presence.
I watched my bare feet plunge into the mud of a storm born above my head, near the redoubt where fears are born, grow, reproduce and die. I moved between doubts and stones fixing my eyes on the dust until I was close enough to awaken your attention.
But it was too late, you managed to flee abducted by the sun’s ray that sneaking between the rods of the blind, pierced the membrane of my eyelids, kicking me back to a soulless morning.