Promises of a Rare Purple

On the train people talk and talk

While eating potato chips noisily 

before falling asleep 

with their mouth wide open

as if nothing exiting were about to happen in their lives. 

Me, on the other hand 

with my body petrified 

like a stone that sweats,

on the way to find the man

who writes me letters by hand

persuading me to let him into my dreams,

the one now supposedly waiting for me

in the Antwerpen-Centraal Train Station

holding a bouquet of rare purple roses, he promised. 

I was a promise myself, 

a wonderful woman, I said 

and he believed in each one of my words. 

Like someone in a movie of a falling plane

I was digging deeply my nails into the seat leather 

trying to shut up all my wonderings

as the train was getting closer. 

Would be the same?

that spark fired by words we exchanged at distance

Impetuous and precious love words. 

One year has passed since I've arrived to that train station

And I remember the exact words I told my founded man:

''Just by looking at you

I have all the seasons

crossing my flesh

without shyness

imposing the natural order of things

where do I start you?

If you seem to have no start or end

Just an ocean of lovely details

where I want to dive endlessly.''

Words I've saved on the same page

where I keep a dry flower

and the memory of a rare color that faded in time.