Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass… (Rumi)
I walked into an empty house this morning, after a longer walk than usual and a longer hour at the gym, still aimless and bemused. The whole day spread out in front of me, endless in its monotony and I ran my mind over and over it, but nothing seemed to amuse me. The newspaper lay untouched and unread on the table, the windows waited to be thrown open to the early morning breeze, the rooms felt unusually empty and quiet. In an odd way all seemed to be in order, in a seemingly organized, structured, ever-so-orderly anodyne home. The only thing it lacked was it’s spirit, you.
I ran my finger over the books in the bookcase that you touch every-time you pick them up to read, drank my coffee your way- stronger and blacker, in your cup, walked around the house gathering what you had left behind, touched the coldness of your shirts hanging from the rail in the wardrobe that wore the clawing smell of the deodoriser instead of your warmth and your perfume, stood by the dresser trying to draw in the freshness of your cologne that you otherwise leave draped over me with the brush of your cheek against mine and later in the evening I took a long walk on the grass still wet from the late afternoon shower. All the time looking, seeking and searching for you.
All through the day I looked for a touch, a look, a smile or a whiff of yours – that you may have left behind – something to assure me of your presence in your absence. And then it came to me, the sign that I longed for so long , it waited for me where I didn’t look at all. I found it when my petulant soul yearned for a song and I turned to your music for respite.
Bésame, bésame mucho / Como si fuera esta noche /La última vez /Bésame, bésame mucho /Que tengo miedo a perderte /Perderte después