I can hear you growing
A short literary piece: hours stolen from the adult world, a name the mouth cannot say, and a hand that will not be let go so the hearing can continue.
Lost hours, faces pulled to stoke the warmth in your eyes, half-light, moons at your side inventing stories, the scented signal from the kitchen, armchairs drawn crosswise around a brazier table where we hid from an adult world we already sensed as the blackness that steals everything. Blind paste.
I imagined on your behalf. The dirty strokes of a bird in an alabaster labyrinth, the fugitive trace of the thousand and one nights, an abyss slipping between our sheets like the eyes that lie in wait and fill us with fear, which are the reflection of our own. You were shaping me.
Orphaned of your body, where love invented the infinite, I am now only a flock of eddies of light and flesh, a cosmic makeshift. I want to say your name, but my mouth is dirty and stops before it joins the three letters, because it knows that the prison of the white coat would come with them, and then there would be no way back.
I do not let go of your hand, so as not to stop hearing how you go on growing inside me.