Useless

I asked a poet to write about you, in the middle of London, next to the river. It was announced he could write anything on paper, at any rate, all the times I wanted.


I told him who you were. I used my best words to describe your soft and shiny hair. I spoke about the darkness of those eyes, the strength living in their colour and the power they have to look. I tried to detail the delicacy of your nose and the softness of your lips. And I stopped there and came back in the sensations you were provoking. I had no words for the miracle of your smile. It was automatic; it should be there.


I went down to your neck, soft and clean, always smelling like the sweetest perfume that makes me feel lost. Then your shoulders, then your hands then your breast.


I got crazy of telling him about the miracles living in the waist and the storms you provoke in your hips. And then I went on. And then I couldn't stop. Your legs, the way you walk and the incredible sensations you were producing in my heart every time I touch you.


And all became sad when I told him you were not here, not across the river, you were not across the channel, you were far away. And all became dark the time I shared I probably won't see you again.


At that time he told me the poem was useless if I can feel all of that when I say your name...