“Half an hour?” he said, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the
young lady, Alessandra.
Alessandra sits next to the window,
with her fingers forming patterns
of swallowed heartbeats, of beats unheard, on the dusty pane.
She’s a lost saga found
in the distant saturnine moors.
Thunderstorms drip from Alessandra’s
tender gaze, with a pillar candle
dripping, drop by drop, over my fingernails. Ensnared, I stood still.
Why did my blood rush into a hell
of uproar at the sight of a painting? Why did the frost air that cut my shoulders as bitter as a carver have gone numb? There was no remedy to what Alessandra had done to me, and everything henceforth lay in misty darkness, in the dark, saturnine moors of the distant sun.
“And who showed you up into this room?”
he continued, with his face yelling the fire
and his voice crushing mine.
© Cereus Florus. 2018.