OUR SHEET IS NOT OURS

   Oh love, today I woke up from the dream of the sleepless night and the sun was not visible, just a faint light that the clouds of a pink orange barely allowed to pass. I pretended that I slept just to evoke your heavy arm over me in the cold of winter. Here I don't feel the cold, or it is me, who no longer feels anything and for me everything is tolerated.
   From my window next to the bed, I see the long, yellow field that I run every day in search of you, and I believe that one day, when I return home, you will be there, at the door, sitting by the vase of pink carnations. Along the road here at home, the violet stains of the thistles guide the path that I have so often imagined you to take. You would like to stay here, oh love, how you would like to wake up and see that the houses in the distance are as white as the sheet that wrapped us around.
   I remember you whenever I move. I barely remember you, how you are, but I remember you because I love you. Today I didn't see you, nor did I see the sun. Oh love, I don’t have your warm touch, but I have the sheet where we loved each other and where the garden sprouted. The carnations from my north, the thistles from now and all the other flowers that only my mother can take care of. I take shelter in this pale shroud with longing and which was made by someone to immaculate a trousseau of others.
   Oh love, the longing for your chest makes mine tremble, I tremble so much that I no longer run the fields, I no longer look at the door, nor do I look over the road. Today I stayed in bed as I have been since I came here. I never felt the dry land, I don't even remember the color of the door, nor do I know if the thistles are still there. I stayed at home, in the lonely bed or in the old armchair, wrapped in dirty white.
    Our sheet is not ours, it belongs to those who love it.