Name

The night.
Did I saw today?
I do not know if and when in recent years I have seen light. Or how.

Dawn.

Not the remembrance fades, but the memory sometimes fails.

Today is used.
Is not finished.

Is it wrong to suppose that we consciously have chosen this scenario?

I do not know how to respond to the question. Sense.
Let alone I start again.

Something. Not to describe. Has forced me to name.
The name to write. Like a pinch to see how real the image is real.

Now the top of this writing and the image is authentic. It is more than name, a name.
It is a picture.

How sick is the mind when the body, in a sea of sweat, awakes in the morning and is only aware of colors.
A palette that only by tears find its original shape. Actually, I remember.
The picture is rather more complete as coming from a developing bath.
Wet, where does that water come from anyway?
It is the distance that separates us; the few miles seem deepest oceans.

I cannot remember exactly how long it has been that I have written something that starts with name.
Name for each day during the past years,
one number, one digit, a landmark, a symbol. Years. Almost.
Those days, when you embraced me, at last, when the untold became truth.
Music. Your stamp and steep depths, heights and that pretty girl bearing a child.
That belly which I will touch later. Empty.