When Time Goes Mute

Sometimes, when dawn peers in, time goes mute and disconnects everyone present in existence, to allow itself to be particular and truncated. It trims itself, experimenting with fleeting pleasures known only in its temple. It lets itself be touched only by its seers and soon flows again, screaming that there is no way to have it back. Those times, when I'm awake, there is reborn in my soul that small moment in which we both smiled slowly, with no desire to discover, determined to be eternal. Those times, when some half-full glass panhandles for attention, forms of ancient kisses flood my eyes, ephemeral tales perch on my shoulders and I let myself drift toward those living memories. Those times, when I don't lie to myself, I scream so loud that the giants mistake my voice for that of their dead, I write without a net on the margins no one reads, and I set fire to the forests I invented to hide in. All of this happens only when time goes mute, before and after, I am nothing more than a caress awaiting the penultimate reunion.