layla (night)

Lines arranged, is supposed I write this letter years later, and not now, it is supposed I write this in one cold afternoon of one of those disarrayed years of anonymous winters, with gray clouds brushed like disdained elements of a distracted melancholy that lose even her horizon in the confuse brume of endless remembrances; were having called to my presence that old but unloyal friend of most of us that is our memory, decided to ask her a few but thoughtful questions about what sometimes can be described with the pretentious name of my life; and as she came promptly,she seats besides me, and smiles with me, with that friendly smile that came with the fatigue of life itself, considering the funny nonsense of what it is made of; and we began to talk. We talk about many things, some of them I never knew before, because sometimes seems that we can not know everything about something; even about us. But that doesn’t mater.
My memory tell me, and I don’t know if I have to believe her, although her voice was clear to my ears, and my eyes was looking her eyes as if they try to find inside hers the truth; she told me, that there was a place, hidden in what years had brought along since then, in memories of undesirable things, trivials thoughts, and serendipity in what life has made to growth around the days, there was, some time and some place, some opportunity is to say, where your skin was as touchable as silk, where your eyes were near my eyes almost as my desire wanted, where your voice was the music I can hear in the night, where your name was a single word for exultant love, for youthful happiness, for the joy of life, where your face was the most desirable image i want to see until die, where your image was the only image that can extract from myself words of heavenly feeling, where that night promised to the believers was my exclusive treasury, where I want no remembrance, because I want not ending, where past and future were nonsense words, because we want there the eternity; and who knows, we almost touch it, where there were not language capable to divide us, or more clearly, to separate me from you, because, the night was my refuge, my consolation, my desire and my plenitude of expectations, and where you were the night and the night personification; never I imagine before of such a feeling, and never after I will disbelieve of it, only because my hands and eyes tell me that there was no an hallucination but an epiphany, and that waas real; incredible but real.
And now, I belong to my past, to my secret past.
I belong to you, and what from you, that human jail that is the time, has left to me. And my remembrance is my desire, and in it I dissolve myself with the hope that, disappeared from what is circumstantial in this world, from what is not more that a routinely dress from my being,I will, I might, fly around the distance, that not throughout it, inside the further, to arrive to you, no matter if, as the poets said, like water we came and as wind we have to go, and colour my soul with the brightness of your company, no matter the desert, no matter the world, no matter the time, because what only matter is your love.
And now, I belong to my past, to my secret past. And that is you.