Love is a hand from one heart to another. We can live without it. However, we wouldn’t grasp the important things. What touches us is not the skin but the soul. We turn off the lights when we lie in bed because we are afraid to see the gaps between two bodies in an embrace. Would we find there the handshake of two souls or only the black emptiness that desires color with ghosts?
Ever since fate separated us, I held your hand over the Atlantic. Our gap is spread across places where the sun rises and sets in different moments so that one of us always sees one or the other. Lately I would lay my hand on the light and believe you’d be holding it in the darkness. Yet faith is the sister of fantasy and delusion. I don’t want to hold ghosts in the dark, even if they are as beautiful as you. Nor do I want, out of only a will of my own, to hold your hand long enough for you to be persuaded you are holding on too. I don’t want love as a reaction.
I leave my hand in the dark, and wait for the action that will make me feel that you’re the one holding it.
