Her morning coffee was black.
She was quitting, but my first cigarette of the day would always end up getting shared.
She would dress herself up with no hurry, and she would leave without saying anything.
I liked to see her leave, slowly, and deep down I knew that someday I would never see
her again.
I actually know very little about her.
Sometimes I even forget the shape of her body, but her essence remains in every edge of this
house, as if she were when steering my thoughts, to leave them scattered on the floor.
She used to tell me that she didn't even know herself, and she didn't understand who
we were or where we were going, but in the end she would always smile at me.
I missed the steamed-out mirrors in the infinite showers.
We used to smoke and fuck there.
She called it her own little garden of the earth little light.
Now her side of the closet is empty, nobody plays the piano at home anymore, her body
vanishes in my mind, and her books now seem mine.
At those times she cracked my soul more than once, but even if I tried, I doubt I could
forget her, I doubt I want to.
When she appears in my memories, I get lost in her smile, I get lost in the darkness,
I close my eyes and she's always there, in black.
Where is she, I wonder why.
You
