A well known end

You are a marvelous story, unexpected but in perfect time. I'll remember you because for the first time I'm not writing, is you who is doing it. To know the end does not make it less enjoyable, instead it makes every kiss and laugh eternal, perfect, meant to happen. 

Sometimes brief stories are the ones with more significance and echo in our lives, is not about time but complicity. 

I'm addicted to short stories long before I was written by you. I love to carry on your signature, it's what makes perfection real. I ought you this new way of focusing life and this new name you gave me. I ought you the feeling: "every thing is about to happen" 

Yes, my dear writer, we are in trouble, the clock is ticking and the smell of the last page is becoming the essence in our meetings. I wont miss you because I will live this short story until people cease to listen. I trust it can go forever, because true passion always finds ears. As a goodbye gift you promised to give me freedom to write whatever I desire, I'll keep hope & love alive, you were right, I'm a writer too. 

I read you and I felt empathy, I saw you and I liked you. We met and I felt electrical sparks surrounding us. We kiss and I was a woman again. Your hand drew me like I wanted to be drawn, and the white pages began to appear in front of us. You took the lead in the dancing of the pen. 

-A short story we are-you said- I should go with the last rain. You should fly too. 

-I'm a Tree, don't you see? 

-You are a woman with dreams. 

I like to unfold pages while your gaze caress my body and your smile lights the spread of the ink as we create the story. 

-Did you come to tell me that my dreams are possible somewhere? Do you exist outside this words? 

- At the end you shall write whatever you wish. I shall become just a stranger, we don't belong. I’m not your dream, you are not mine, we met because God is playing dice again. Let's be a short story until the last rain arrives and dice stop pushing our lips together. Let's write with eyes close trusting our rhythm.

White pages is all we have, two writers is all we are. Time and space are right, its a story happening with a well known end. 

Julio 2012