The walking night

I never really found sleep. I like the night and the moon too. The nights, those nights that belonged to us as anyone in the world, those nights that made us capsize so often without us knowing if the stars were in the sky or in our eyes. The nights have become black holes in the unfathomable abyss. As a result, I really like the waking nightmares.

Tonight, it will be a year. Indeed, Four hundred nights spent with you, without you. With my eternal body than is yours. Do you understand?

To rebuild my life my friends advised me. They think than is easy for me. Poor losers. It is not to forget you, of course not, they said, it is betray. Twenty years to rebuild his life, move on to someone else, you would have liked, you wanted … How many times have I slammed the door on such drivel?

Nearly four hundred nights spent with you, without you. You are a loser.

Nearly four hundred nights lying motionless, staring at the black, traveling in the infinity of my blind eyes, wandering the surface of the ocean without light or compass. Microscopic flares, fugitives coils twirling on the surface of my eyes open on the shade are reminiscent of the starry sky that we gazed, enraptured, fed, drunk, covered in sweat and salt, alone in the middle of the marine immensity. My bed is a boat, raft and I drift until, exhausted, I sometimes dark hours. In my darkest hours, you did not be here. Loser.

I am very slump. Nothing and no one can replace you. My body is dead with yours. It saw in the dream then I am of you, every night.

However, each night, the heart of darkness, when the foot I hit bottom and began to return to the surface, the light emerges, the light that is amplified, bathing waters, unreal, as I go back to the border fluid between sea and sky, in a flurry of bubbles, a swarm of solar beads, amidst silver ribbons of tiny fish. I feel the water on my naked body, my body twenty years, my skin smooth and brown twenty years, and I well to the surface of the world in a burst of joy, I cross the splendid mirror of the great Mediterranean summer, blue and white, blue and gold. And you laugh, and you make me hold out my hand, and you hisses me to you as you a fish, a mermaid you say and bring me plates on you, still dripping, suffocating fresh against your body burning, and you hold me to choke me, you’re anchors in me without giving me time to catch my breath, and I cry on your lips, I rattle on your lips, I scarified your back, I let myself be overwhelmed, I flush you in me there is not one millimeter between our flesh, not a breath between our mouths devour each other.

I was a little girl. Wise, studious, prudent, modest, from platonic love in romantic fantasies.

It was a little girl, sitting on the terrace of coffee with a book, you had approached one morning. I noticed you the previous days, it would have been difficult to do otherwise. Your boat was the first moored at dock right in front of the only coffee enjoying the morning sun. I could not give you an age. Slim, muscular, lean, athletic body just right, look sailor, diver template, you could have twenty years as thirty. Every morning you meticulously preparing your boat, rolled tips, put away the guns, harpoons, weights belts, buoys.

I watched you on the sly. You reminded me of someone, but I know who reaches. That hair and those dark eyes, slightly identified, the nose a little too long, this distant air, almost absent, as if you were not quite there. I seemed to know you. Yet it was impossible, I had for the first time in this island, you were obviously foreign, Italian if I judged the flag floating on your boat.

I was a little girl, despite my nineteen years in a few days, when, against all odds, you came to sit at the table next and had ordered a ristretto. You never came to coffee before casting off. Your boat ready, you détachais the bollards, you jumped on board, agile as a cat, you maneuvered with ease without even looking behind you to get out of the entanglement from sidewall to sidewall tight boats and I watched you walk away in the channel to disappear over the horizon, small fondue Aegean blue veil in the perfect azure.

I plunged back into my book and you forgot until morning.

But that morning, you sent a ristretto, you had eaten, I noticed the little trace of foam on your lips, and this little track had cast a chill on my skin, unexpected, unknown. I felt the taste of the coffee, the texture of the light foam, I had the irrational urge to pass the tip of my tongue on your lip. I had remained prohibited. I was ashamed, certainly, in the tan, and it was not settled when, without even looking at me because you looked elsewhere, far away, had told you, you said, in French, with a voice hoarse that I heard for the first time and a delicious hint of an accent, you had distinctly said “I take you? “

I wondered who you asking this question which was not really a. Clearly, this could not be up to me, we were alone in this terrace.

“Take me to the ends of the earth, take me in wonderland …”. Aznavour’s song sung buckle my mother when I was a little girl rang in my ears. I was still a little girl, but for only a few more seconds. Because the next moment, I answered with a question that was not either a “here we go? “

I got up, I was not looking at you, I did not dare, I headed to the boat. To help me jump off the dock on the bridge, you’ve reached out. I saw on your wrist black tattoo of an anchor. I sat at the front of the nose of the boat, legs hanging over the waves, facing the sun towards the horizon, towards the unknown.

We did not exchange a word. You traced straight ahead and the boat spun, drank the water smooth in the morning and flying fish he paved the way. We did not say anything to this cove surrounded by white cliffs whose enfractuosités were so many nests for seabirds. You had proposed to halt it. You had let the boat run on her way then you asked me to take the anchor and prepare to get wet. I hardly knew the naval terms. You had to doubt you, because you had me then said with a nod “yes, miss, it is not anchored, is wetted. Your French is still meaningful, sometimes double, sometimes troubles! “It was the first time I saw you laugh and you seemed so happy, standing in the wind.

My apprenticeship was not long. In this creek, and in all those where we mouillerions the following days, I learned everything. I learned not withstand the headwinds, I learned to let myself be carried by the warm currents that flooded my body, I learned that the central metal part of the anchor was called the penis. I discovered that a woman lived my body, I met for the first time, I learned to undress under the gaze of a man, to stay naked, standing in the light, facing the sky, j ‘ learned to indulge in the hot sun until my body ablaze until open my thighs and my cock is brought to incandescence. I learned to caress as you caressed for hours to decipher every bit of our skin with the fingertips, lip, and then with both hands, with open mouth. I learned the slow pitch of bodies in amorous embrace indefinitely again surf, the tide of desire and the tide of abandonment sated, I heard the echo of our enjoyments bouncing off the rock and make flying cormorants, I felt your pleasure gush into me like the tide rushes into the sea caves, I faced the ten strong storms that left us gasping on the sand, clinging to the other like shipwrecked.

We returned only to ports, we lived as far away from the others, almost without words, if not to talk about sea and love, to say the light and water, dazzling our eyes, exploding our sense the adoration of our bodies.

It could have lasted until the end of time.

My body is cold since that night when you’re not back on board. You liked nothing better than these night dives that frightened me. I did try to follow you, but this murky world without roof or bottom, that scarcely penetrated the torch, worried me. You never dive alone does one told me later, but who would dare you ban? You’re never returned. We found your body, failed, iced. I wanted not to see.

Night fell, definitely on my cold body. My vagina is closed like a shell, hermetic, impenetrable.

Sometimes when the water is too dark at night, when my foot does not touch the ground when I summon in vain the stars, I rekindled the light, I get up, I work until my head falls the sheet or the keyboard. Sleep in the halo of the lamp The man in glove reproduction of this painting by Titian that had so impressed me at the Louvre. His face out of the shadows like yours haunts my nights. I have no photo of you, only this young dark and gentle man, for I have found, since you died, who looked like you so much.

Tonight, it will be a year. Nearly four hundred nights with you, without you.

The young man glove watches over my insomnia. I write your name on the keyboard of my computer. I write incoherently or end. Endless because I fall, I sink, I sink into a heavy sleep, curled up in this great Indian silk shirt that you had given me.

A breath on my cheek. A warm breath, even burning. Touches the tip of my ear. A damp wind, a small wet sound, whispered a word I do not understand but perhaps is it a foreign word. Lips down along my neck, fingers raised my hair, hands take my head gently, enclose, mouth continues its path on the neck. Hands tangled hair, caress the shoulders away the edges of the silk slip, parallel, in the indentation, interfere in the tissues, palms enclose my breasts, the pulp of two index draws on the nipples. Dormant depths, buried my dead body deaf forgotten heat, my mouth opens to snap up the incoming air, which irrigates me finally, a sigh is born, lips seize it, drink it instantly, and the sweet language will gather in my mouth the groan that fuse. A tongue to taste mixed with salt and coffee.

I cannot breathe, I’m snorkeling, hands down on my stomach and I rock, I house slowly, I let my open arms, my palms to heaven and warm hands, slowly, sacredly, always down, the silk whisper, fingers arise, achieve recognition patiently, surely, at the entrance. The shell is ajar, the little secret pearl, shiny, pearly, rolls and swells in the known index, thighs open like a compass flesh and the wave of desire overwhelms the body forward, raises, the arcboute. I implore fingers to finally open the way for found sex, hard and soft, compelling and clever.

I scream and cry my wake up with a start. My hand is looking for you, my wet hand drawn my breasts, my lips wet call you, my lips quiver as discontinued a frantic butterfly, I look for you in the small day dawning, my hand met a soft and velvety as an object skin, I quiver, sit up, turn on the lamp. It is a beige leather glove with a backhand, long worn a glove if I judge by the color gray in places, a glove that is not for me but I have yet, I think, already seen. Someone is there, I’m sure. Someone came in my sleep.

I inspect the room, nobody, no other noise in the pale dawn that my heavy breathing and the distant roar of the incoming tide. A ray of light enters the office through the blinds, a ray illuminates the face of the young Venetian, it brings out the smoky background of the picture. Above the immaculate shirt collar, neck seems to shudder. He looks toward the window, which overlooks the sea.

The Tiziano Vecellio young man, said the Titian has no glove on his left hand.

On his wrist is tattooed an anchor.