Porto

She told me that I had “a different kind of beauty.” She could not allow herself to feel - I wonder what that would be like - to only think things and never to feel them.

Her observations of the world, though, were rather poetic, and I was glad to make her laugh.

We met on a bridge, representative of my current state in life: between places.

So I shall always remember meeting her in space. Over a river.

Like children we were, living life slowly, as if we were doing it for the first time, sitting on the edge of a pond. And I can’t forget the way she enabled me to live a whole life in three days.

And I know I had kissed her hands, but I wondered if she had felt my face, as most people see my face and my eyes and have thoughts about them, but how many truly feel my face with all the nerves of their fingertips, recognizing it again in the future? And then - what would she think? Or better yet, how would she feel? How would she feel about herself, and about how I hope she has retained in her some part of me?