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That tremble of thigh
and little lace
brushed by fingertips
are the best memory of a few days
known without hurry, without documentation,
like timid friends.

It was the afternoon before the storm,
thunder in the sky.
You appeared in the garden, secret,
dressed in clothes of a different time,
with an extravagant manner of wanting me,
pretending to be the wind in a wardrobe,
the light in black silk
and glass stockings
so pressed
to your thighs, forcefully,
with that dark force
of their masters in life.

Under the confused color of the wild flowers,
unexpectedly you offered me
the memory of your open lips,
some difficult clothing, and the beam of light
barely glimpsed on your flesh,
like lunatic fire,
like the flame of an almond tree where I placed
my hand without doubt.
In the garden, the noise of the last birds,
of the first raindrops in the trees.

That tremble of thigh
and little lace, of trespassed body hair,
its elastic resistance
defeated by the pass of the years,
become real again, swell of waves to the touch,
damp sand between the hands,
when again, here, in my thoughts
I give myself up to the difficult solution of your groin
and I stop writing
in order to call you.