Porcelain Heart
Last night I dreamt of our perfect happiness. It was quite strange, for you asked me to come early to your place. And I was there, before sunrise. You were up, writting. We sat at your kitchen table. We had tea. You talked to me about the novel. ‘Siempre sospeché que ella tenía esa clase de sentimientos, pero ahora que leí tu libro, dije, qué cosa, tal vez no estaba yo tan errada.’ You held me tigh, very. And you asked me once again what I though of the child. I replied with the same honesty as before. You talked frankly and opened.
Many people came around your house. ‘The kid’ was there. You kept saying that he was just a kid, a good one, but just a kid. That perhaps things would not be easy for him to handle, but that if ours was bound to happen, it shall have to happen, no matter what.
The sun was rising, and I saw myself cooking our breakfasts. Then, we were outside. We walked, embraced, towards a bread shop. The air was cool and I could smell so closely a sweet scent pouring from your body.
I woke up, with a strange certainty.
Morning passed. The evening rushed. Time stopped at five when we were supposed to go inside and see what friends and foes were going to say about him. You came out, and, very shy, said hello with a kiss. The same scent poured from you. I felt dazed and enchanted. What kind of connection have we got there? It was not your usual scent, yet, it was THE scent of the dream.
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