Malva

Mallow, I loved you so much, Mallow, that it's laughable to think about it.
Mallow, I cried so much out of love that I could fit in a sack full of cats.
My dreams are messenger doves that get lost among the antennas, above the city, and never return.
Or they come back with an olive branch in their beak and stay waiting by some doorway.
Your dreams are fisherman's nets. Curtains on whitewashed doors with a blue trim (like your dark circles).
Mallow, through them I knew, Mallow, that I was losing.
Mallow, I had you so much that I could fit in a sack of cats.
The years that pass without you are cherries in a basket woven of ferns. Intruding sparrows in a foreign nest.
And my walk is already so slow, that I only feel you very occasionally,
an instant, in the whirlwind of some song.
And I dream of fisherman's nets. Curtains on whitewashed doors with a blue trim that are your dark circles,
Mallow. I cried for you as if to overflow seas.
As if to refloat ships that will only be splinters discovered by treasure hunters inland.
In other lives, in other worlds dressed in centuries, dressed in asphalt over sea beds,
over fossilized shells and trails in the always and in the never of our firmament.
Mallow, for you I cried so much that I could fill a little wicker basket.