My left eye itches.
My cheeks smile,
they turn into two pieces of candy, and a grimace crosses my face.
It signals my fingers to follow its rhythm.
A head that usually moves at many (several) miles per hour now quietly slows down.
Making the decision to sit on my lap,
and to observe without interfering.
(Or at least, that’s what it makes me believe.)
Like a girl with high pigtails, leaning on her forearm, lying upside down, drawing circles in the air.
She watches me and limits herself to not understanding me.
To watching me exist without meaning.
To allowing herself the luxury of not questioning me.
Silence in my ears, perhaps in hers as well.
Bright, mischievous little eyes shine with moonlight.
A heart beats, a thumb chimes softly.
The girl watches me, draws me, tastes me.
She allows herself to know me beyond what she’s been told,
an incomplete narrative.
She forgets perspectives and does somersaults,
eating a bland radish.
She looks me in the eyes, smiles at me.
She reminds me that her retreat is finite.
Thoughts of linen, later of wool.
Heavy, present, suffocating the chest.
But for now, I enjoy it,
sitting, entranced.
Watching the letters breathe, loosen.
Completely forgetting the fact
that my left eye itches.
Photography by Carolina Escalante Ruz.
