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Why, when combing her silky hair,
I have the sensation the opacity
of the white threads corrupt my heart with a sudden feeling of pity?
Who will age first, myself or her?
I loved a woman, this same woman, all my life, but it is at the moment
of facing the trajectory of my own fall, that my face, and our wrinkles,
evoke the greatest discomfort.
She asks me, “what is it?”
I stopped my arm in the middle of the movement
combing and not knowing why, or with what reason
life brings us questions that we are not capable
or willing to answer or investigate.
I answer, “I have the sensation that the breeze is cold.”
And it enters in between the gaps,
and the kind kisses on the cheek.
Our kitchen has a white floor,
and some grey hair disappears among the tiles.
My feet are frozen, and the wind outside is very strong.
Published in The Pavilion.