Two imperfect beings, that could be you and me, carrying backpacks that we would like to forget in any park, one of those days. But, for which we would return without doubts not being able to be unfaithful to ourselves.
Because, how can you leave behind everything you’ve lived?
And, at this point in which I cannot be without myself, my imperfection meets with yours and they tremble each in others hands, like the branches of the trees dancing in a storm. You remember the madness that you had missed, but also long for it.
And another wound is feared, a possible failure. Your dread the emotional pain but you still feel the desire to love and be loved. A desire that slips between the tips of my fingers while I am attracting it with my memory.
And while I caress myself, the necessity to feel alive again takes hold of me. I am tempted to know what could happen between two imperfect beings. Beautifully imperfect, clumsy and insecure. A middle age woman and man, two simple people in this world.