A GENTLE TORMENT
The image of him in my mind is captivating. We have met only a few times, yet I already feel unable to fool myself. I miss him. Today it has been a week since the last time I saw him, but my mind is caught in his arms as if he were here. I stroke the velvet sofa and think of his back, a harmonious line that traces the boundary between the person I was before and the one I am now; now that I think of him. I believe in destiny and in the fact that I met him for a reason. Or perhaps the reasons are many, but it does not matter – this is how it was meant to be. I don’t really know his world, and I am afraid to let him into mine. I may have seemed to him like someone I am not, or perhaps I may have seemed like nothing at all. This sofa which I am lying on continues to be the cradle of my conjectures. I try to be logical and rational, until a warm breeze gently opens the window. It reminds me of his breath. Feeling it on me was like living the first day of summer: the euphoria of the beginning of the holidays, endless hours of light after a darkness that had seemed unending. I finally cry. I finally have something to long for again, and it is so beautiful to be here feeling well and suffering at the same time. I look at the soft lines of the stucco mouldings on the ceiling and think of our bodies wrapping around each other. I imagine them as if I were an external observer. It is an intense and seductive intertwining, an accord of silhouettes that seems rare to find. In my imagination, it goes on endlessly.
Credits: Photo by Jack Juliar / Post Production by Séan Barrow / Still Life by Emilio Murolo / Text by Melania Musci