he
followed the ritual
while
she combed her hair
and
the silent melody
of
her thighs,
and
a spell coming from her lips--
a
song that she sang
in
front of a mirror,
and
simultaneously
he
was composing the words
in
a discrete feeling
of
surrender:
thank
you,
oh
thank you
for
this incredible ride,
for
you don't know
how
to hide,
for
you don't know how
to
hide...
that
he's tortured by love,
the
one that burns inside,
he'll
admit
hundreds
of times
as
soon as she steps
in
front of that mirror
again
to
comb her hair
with
the same melody
of
movements
so
he can observe
with
a greedy desire,
like
a lone tenant
in
slippers,
with
suspenders,
who
opened the door very slowly,
making
sure
she
doesn't see him in
reflection.
© Tom Del Braco
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