Ballerina

The first moment I saw you I must admit I didn’t gave you a second thought. Then, looking closer – watching you from a distant corner –, some hand reached mine with a soft, warm, gentle touch. Who are you really? We’ll part in a few days, and so there’s no point in trying to get to know you better. I really don’t think I want to know about the things that make you smile, or laugh, or cry… I don’t want to know if you love rain or sunshine, or if you’ve ever dreamed about being a ballerina. Maybe you just love sunsets and take pleasure in walking up and down at the beach after dinner. Maybe you love to read and to wear those beautiful blue summer dresses with little white flowers on. Maybe you love the smell of book pages and close your eyes when you go to bed trying to imagine sceneries for the stories you’re reading, or how their characters look like. Maybe you love to walk amongst inhabitants of far away cities pretending you’re at home. Maybe you love to swim naked on deserted beaches, and sweet oranges when it’s really hot. Maybe you love to wake up hearing the birds outside your window and the smell of chocolate cakes baking in the evening. Maybe you love the electricity of Christmas and children, and horses, and fantasising about being a princess from a strange country. Maybe you love flying and the emotions of taking off, or maybe you love the smell of coffee by the morning, with toasts, and orange jam, and passion fruits… Maybe you just love to dream about love, and maybe you dream about being loved too. Maybe you even dream about me loving you, and maybe you would like it if I showed some interest in getting to know all this little things about you. Maybe I’m completely wrong, maybe I’m not, but I don’t really want to know anything more about you. I know enough: you caught me.

(Photograph: Paris, France, December of 2006 / Text: Tomar, Portugal, July 28th, 2008)

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