Who are you?

After staring at the dirty socks, lying powerless on the floor, I had not even the courage of picking them up and considered that my sore legs were the reason why I was in a bad mood. Bent over the chair, I also thought they would have stood up on their own and they would have run to hide in some narrow crack in my room.

A wind rivulet from the window made me think so; it carried your voice, roosted on the long string of a sidereal distance, so vast it could not be quantified. I turned around all of a sudden, like a beast sensing a cloudburst. I listened to the catastrophe, from the fragrance of your accent, within that zephyrus.

The familiarity of a voice I couldn’t identify made me twitch from the chair. I went past the window’s shutter left ajar and I hung out beyond the balcony, extending my look up to the street. I sifted through the profile of every soul wandering in life’s coming and going, consuming the grey asphalt on the sidewalk. It seemed like none of them had your voice, except for a shadow excerpt that hastened its pace as soon as my eyes identified it.

I became lightening: I wore the t-shirt, took the keys, passed the doors, jumped over three steps at time and I rushed into the street while the wind and your voice had now taken brighter colour. Your shadow had passed the corner, blending into people’s shapes, into the chaos of the first springy morning.

I proceeded, following the trace of your existence, discerning with difficulty the profile, which I sensed was yours, as your voice’s breath barely ruffled my hair. I walked fast, overlooking the lactic acid in my legs. I weaved among the steps of strangers around me, past their voices at the telephone, beyond their rancid cologne and their shabby clothes. I went past three crosswalks, as the distance among us grew. I just barely lost you while avoiding a tram. Then, once again, I saw your elusive steps past the park’s grating.

I stopped to breath, aware I could have lost you - but who were you?- in the hesitation of my tiredness: legs were on fire.

 Out of breath, I continued slowly, lengthening the gaze. The park largely extended inside my field of view. A rusty seesaw squeaked in the swinging of your voice. Children were at school, no one sang that morning. Just your wind talked and called me, while hiding your shadow between ravines, bushes, birches, larch’s branches and lifeless topsoil.

You called me, through the wind.

- Who are you?- I shouted out, turning my head to the warm sky, against the sleepy clouds. That forgotten familiarity deeply bothered me, an unrestrained obsession.

You didn’t hear, perhaps you didn’t want to hear or maybe my cry was mute, lost in the park’s voracious silence. A distant clock hit the time. I took a step and it seemed like the sound of that missing bell tower had whispered a piece of advice.

The muttering of the artificial lake. I knew of its existence, just beyond that chestnuts row, prickly like bishops. I walked down, enjoying the moment before discerning your shadow hiding in the shore. The sound of the chips under my feet was reassuring.

- Are you here- I shouted once I overtook the block made of trunks and leaves.

The little lake quietened down, wrapped up in the peaceful gurgle of its artificial water. You were there, under the powerless lotus leaves, like my socks, on the water surface. My legs hurt even more. I saw your silhouette beyond the covering of the moist fronds.

I listened one last whisper, then with the last extremity of my body, the index finger scratched by the wind, I gently moved your shelter. A moan opened up in your chest. Lips were disclosed, close but not enough to touch each other, they were the metonymy of that rush.

Above us lingered one last question: who are you?

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