Tonight.

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?

Distant

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?