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That moon, beacon of our hopes, is now hidden between whispers that declaim presences.
Where was the distance that drew our naked bodies?
Where did your universe vanish, intertwined with my dreams of conquering that moan that only existed in the perfect touch, an act of justice in the face of so many solitudes, nights filled with uncertainty?
Where was the centre of your anatomy, thinking you mine, while my fingers, in a hurried walk, tried to slow down the harmful time, over the blush of your femininity that expresses itself?
Where was the passage of the moon, reflecting in the window of our room, where the innocuous testimony of two beings sought to unite the fire of passion with the humidity propitious to such surrender?
Where was the sound recorded that I tried to listen to you, and only managed to love you in silence, disturbing my solitude?
In this echo of memories, the moon is hidden, and in its shadow, my longings remain, trapped between desire and distance, waiting for the moment when love will bloom again.