A scent of turquoise blue petals

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That, Sarah, was a love I used to feel in my entire dimension and which was a hundred percent requited by her. That’s why, in order to remind you how much she used to love me, and also, just so you appreciate that I’m entitled to justify myself however briefly, I shall now, dear, duplicate in this letter some of the words my lover wrote to me that magical delightful night: Devoting yourself to someone else on a corporeal level is realising there’s something in the soul devoid of all barriers and measurements. I’ve learnt that from you, which is why I wanna express my gratitude to you. Thank you my darling, by the same token, for embracing me in the insinuating furrows of your avid and overwhelming glance and for letting me die in you. Perishing in person, indeed, will always be the same as being reborn in a diaphanous splendorous world which shall always be new and lucid. That why that night, you know, I will make my biggest effort for you to experience the dream of the captive and quixotic travellers who’ve all but forgotten the skin where they’ve forsaken their hearts and in which soul they’ve deserted themselves. You’ve got to accept, Sarah, that those are beautiful passionate words
which, come to think of it, stood out against the flavourless quotidian lines my morning paper offered me that day you were making breakfast. ‘Behold how odd, Sarah!’, it suddenly occurred to me uttering that morning, with the paper in one hand and my steamy cup of coffee in the other. ‘The IMF’s going to introduce a new global economic re-adjustment plan. Or check this other one: the WHO warns of the dangers of a new pandemic flu with hitherto unidentified origins.’ That, Sarah, meaning the news that my paper presented, just came up to me, to be honest, in an instant in which it seemed to me that you were interrupting the making of breakfast in order to stay there eavesdropping, as if you were studying me or trying to read my thoughts. A moment later, however, I overheard the sound of pans and cutlery again, and all of the other utensils you were employing, and that calmed me down a little. I kept reading my paper, then, as if nothing had happened, while you kept making breakfast for me and our two small daughters. I kept reading while morning’s libations touched the feelings of an unsuspected mischievous moon of subtracted glimpse. I was in fact looking at my paper, and at you as well, intermittently and briefly, and also at my overflowed cup of coffee as tiny whiffs of steam sprang from it. My eyes, of profound honey tonality, couldn’t help but follow the invisible chaotic trail outlined in the air by the capricious and utterly fervent vapour, as what it was actually looking, more than at the haze itself, at a memory - more accurately, at an assortment of evocative vertiginous and undoubtedly fascinating images, an incessant act of
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A scent of turquoise blue petals

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