jarpadd

„A harsh sun sets over what remains of the last snow. It seems to smile sourly at you and, in mourning and humiliated, you bow your head before the golden tyrant. And I, seeing in your poisoned glance clouds forged by winter’s Blacksmith, point to a Sea shell, stuck in the cement that lays before your feet, minuscule and milled in Neptune’s whirlpool, and eons later, in our neighbor’s cement mixer - both Gods over its Destiny. I didn’t get why then, but your heart skipped a beat and I felt in you, but for a moment, a kid that was stepping for the very first time without shoes and without socks in the sandbox at the playground. The sea shell echoed with a suave symphony: seagulls and waves – salt water clinging to your mouth; and your mourning garb, and the clouds behind your eyes, turned sneakily into crooked smile and shovel. You stepped on the sea shell; the symphony drowned under the thick sole of your boot so heavy. And I distantly watched as you buried that which

Hidden between my fingers are creases, minuscule and many, and, out of an obscure sense of obligation I search to cover them, with anything that I can get my hands on: a pen, a knife, a hammer, even a stranger's fingers I, worried, watch and wonder if I have found a match. My cold hand grips unsurely a spoonful in which shines, a rather curious Broth, that faintly smells of longing. A longing for that thing, specifically created to fill up all the creases which, if left to their own devices, sew between my fingers surely, solitude.