This evening, I wore a melancholy dress.
And each time the sunlight almost disappeared, I thought of you.
I haven’t told you, dear, that I have never had a kiss that I liked. And that each night, before dreaming, my memory plays Schubert’s Valses Sentimentales. And sometimes, not always, I think of the love we could have had if we were not ourselves.
But then I needed a cup of tea.
The tree outside the kitchen looks like the mulberry tree of my childhood.
After I die, will someone remember that mulberry trees used to remind me of salt?
but beautiful like a silence
Yesterday could have been a star.
Sometimes, dear, I am scared.
Is there a way to know if what I feel is mine?