A Spectator?

Not salty, not sweet, not sour, not bitter, not dry, not wet, not refreshing and clear like water. You were not this! You were not like the cold wave of a tourist’s gaze over the buildings and bricks of a forgotten city. You were not like a sparrow’s feather blown in by the wind, roaming the little courtyard and gone. Hot: your breaths. Fast: your heartbeats. The beats of your pulse spun from the tangled, mute skein of meeting a thread of union from heart to heart. In the most remote, the darkest corners of my city the brine of your clear tears poured onto my cold sore. In the farthest alleys of my city your sweet smile mingled with my lips. With every drop, with every smile, you drove away the curtains of borders, you took root in me, deep and deeper you welled up in me... The nightingales come at every daybreak, onto the highest soft branch of the bitter orange they alight, open the shell of their slender beak, suddenly sing, sing the whole of being. A rolling waterfall of pearls, a magical trill, pours over my head and shoulders, small and large, pearl by pearl they hang from my ear. I wander through the illuminated city. A city that slowly, slowly — it was you — whose coldness you mingled with. A city that slowly, slowly — it was you — you drew away from silence. Not bitter, not sweet, not sour, not anything! You were not “other,” like this; you were not like a wisp of straw passing over everything — without root in hearts — a plaything of the wind...