Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?

Every day you play with the light of the universe.

In the distance someone is singing.

I love you as one loves certain dark things.

Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

I love all things, not because they are passionate or sweet-smelling but because, I don't know, because this ocean is yours, and mine: these buttons and wheels and little forgotten treasures, fans upon whose feathers love has scattered its blossoms, glasses, knives and scissors -- all bear the trace of someone's fingers on their handle or surface, the trace of a distant hand lost in the depths of forgetfulness.