Do you remember? That day, that sole day, that day in which for some reason or another shades from the surroundings used to attach iridescently to the windows, I found myself reminiscing about those deep emotive words, not to say uttermost beautiful and unforgettable, that my gorgeous fervent lover had ever so tenderly whispered to me the previous night. Such murmurs didn’t stop embracing me while the steepest most unassailable reefs of my soul were steadily rising and kept wandering about my heart’s labyrinths as if they were chasing a mysterious and indomitably sleek fondle, which they boisterously meant to seize, or rather, which they wished to grasp with all the desires that only a fatuous shuddered dazzling flame can ever possess. Yes, that’s what I was thinking about while finding myself ostensibly engrossed amidst the echoes of thoughtful understated riveting quivering uncouth openly immodest shrewd emanations.

I devoted myself, meanwhile, to the humdrum task of reading the morning paper and enjoying the pallid serenity of a steamy and affable cup of coffee, in order not to reveal my thoughts to you, my beautiful self-sacrificing wife. So long as you, my beautiful unrelenting wife, didn’t infer my thoughts and didn’t suspect anything, I focused on the simple task of reading the day’s paper; that, and enjoying the livid serenity of a steamy and pleasant cup of coffee, whose heat overfilled the fibres of my being and completely seized me with lucid straightforward tranquillity and which overwhelmed me in the same way and almost with the same joy as my lover’s intense affectionate words had when she dedicated them to me out of nowhere, or as if passion had been the most natural fervid element of the soul, or as if her skin dictated her the messages she should give me the very night before. Except, certainly, that her words of intense loving presence were written in various pieces of paper coloured in such an utterly dense and deep blue only matched by her eyes of hypnotic dulcified turquoise-blue textures, infinite curved lines, abyssal depths and diluted daydream light escaping the infinite moments of an instant-less time, devoid of seconds, hours, thoughts of quotidian features running like a river of eternal unavoidable current, the kind of split second that only occurs through glances of profound synergic attachment.

But alright, my love, I was about to tell you that I’ll never be able to withdraw from my memory some of the words she wrote to me, if memory’s even made of imperishable perdurable filaments, which one way or another also compose ourselves. And no, it’s not that I’m being cynical, or maybe a little bit. What happens is that I do want to start off being honest with you, once and for all, Sarah, so I’ve also got to confess that there was a time, quite a while ago actually, quite remote in my very own interstices, and quite dissipated already around everything that I am nowadays, in which I was crazy about her (my lover, of course).

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 dulcified unstoppable lust in the fantastic foreshore of desire.

You don’t die in me, dear, as you say. You just dream in the unfathomable haven of my skin, which is outright craving yours.

Because when hope is shared, life rolls up on itself and becomes endless.

I kept remembering the words she, my ardent sizzling lover of superlative exquisite fragrance had written to me the previous night in some pieces of paper coloured in blue; pieces that appeared to be minute fragments of beauty and passion which had been delicately uprooted from heaven itself. Meanwhile, my eyes wandered between the lines of newspaper and stove, before which you stood, my faithful wonderful wife, engaged in meal preparation tasks. I remember swiftly taking a delicious hot sip of coffee while staring at you. Its flavour suddenly frolicked in my taste buds and hovered in the most intimate vicinities of my memory.

That coffee, by the way, helped me intensely remember the fascinating passionate soiree I’d spent with my lover the very preceding evening, the way my hands and my anxious fingers grazed and grasped her smooth scented skin which, glance by glance, silence by silence and stroke by stroke, I fulfilled with the perpetual energy of my most frenzied concupiscent emotions, and where the innermost desire to gambol comfortably flirted with sin’s very own framework. Yes, that’s how I remembered my dear lover, the scintillating and vast turquoise-blue moon reflected in her eyes, the topmost passion outlining her glare and the fiery and lukewarm night in which she offered me her immoderate affection, and which reappears to me now, or who knows if in that secret part of my memories it even defines me and my personal identity, reappearing as a mirage, that is, surrounded by the livid suggestive aura of reminiscences, by the unsuspected buoyancy of a dream and by the capricious chaotic vapour of a steamy cup of hot coffee; a night which has been, in other words, immortalised amongst one of life’s lightest breaths.

My love: the body is that exquisite vehicle which allows us to take over dreams and desires and to even anticipate the true wishes hidden by our prudish senses and the most precious moments selected by our memory to spawn life’s very own path.

Yes, I kept reminiscing about the succinct notes from my dear clandestine lover. You stopped your pursuit, however, abruptly and completely out of the blue, with a massively strange vibe and switched off the stove, went up to your room with an unprecedented rush, slamming doors behind you as if carried on by a sudden desire of wrath and indignation, just like that, without saying a word or offering the smallest hint of what was going on. I couldn’t help but asking myself, overcome with angst, if you’d happened to somehow discover the wealth of passion which, up until then, had been inundated by the unintelligible backdrop of my eyes, with all the delicious nuances of my dear lover’s beauty.

When you, Sarah, returned to the kitchen, a very familiar jasmine scent caught up with me as a surge which gave me the goosebumps. Do you remember? You were planted in front of me, carrying a bag from which the unmistakable jasmine scent of my dear lover stoutly poured. I sensed the worst. In that instant, in the midst of an absolute silence, you spilled on the table where up until then I’d been reading my morning paper while sipping from a light and steamy cup of coffee and pining for my lover, a minuscule ocean of scented papers coloured in turquoise blue. I gulped. Memories from the previous night, when I’d died and been reborn in the smooth skin that wasn’t yours, diluted themselves into oblivion as if they’d merely been a reverie and nothing more. It was then that I knew my soul would be confined in a labyrinth of uncertainty and unconsciousness and that I’d only be able to communicate with you through these letters I write to you every week, with which I hope you some day care to forgive me, and I learnt that the stillness of dreams, pleasures and delights dimly and indistinctly paralleled the unsuspected fearful silence of absence.