Érem estirats al llit, reposant; el meu cap sobre el seu pit. El batec cançoner colpejant suaument la meva galta. Un silenci placid surant damunt nostre. I el temps, mandrós, emmarcant l’escena amb una certa distància. Aquell dit que s’escapa a l’aventura de resseguir contorns nous, un floc de cabells mal posats, dues pigues alineades sota el melic. Els llençols, tous, custodiant els nostres cossos càlids.
“Que penses?”
I no sé per on començar, ni si atrevir-me a definir l’amor que sento. La por no admesa de perdre allò que mussiti en un simple xiuxiueig. Que si m’ho quedo a dins, així protegit, perdurarà, ho sabré cuidar, perdurarà. I dic alguna ximpleria, el veig riure de reüll. Recol.loca el dors i jo em moc amb ell, com una planta enfiladissa buscant la llum, l’escalfor, l’afecte.
M’agradaria obrir una porta al bell mig del meu tors, que amb tres passes fos a l’ànima i pogués explorar tranquil. Seria fàcil, sense paraules que en limitessin el sentit. Només un camí, molt llarg, on a cada costat s’hi veuríen vitrines, i a dins, trossets del que sóc i el que vull ser. Enfilaria ben lluny amb prudència, potser s’entretindria a veure amb més detall algun racó. Com un zoològic d’emocions contingudes, de pensaments exòtics i sensibilitats en perill d’extinció. Tot això posaria al seu abast, li entregaria com la comadrona que diposita un nadó recent nascut als braços de la mare. Hi podria anar sempre que volgués, o en aquells moments que em vol entendre, que no es creu les ximpleries però somriu de totes maneres.
La llum de l’estança minvava amb recel, jelosa de veure’ns perdre el temps tant dolçament. Érem estirats al llit, ja gairebé part del mobiliari, immòbils. Les respiracions sincronitzades, els cossos entrellaçats en un conjunt íntim, només nostre.
“Que penses?”
“Que t’estimo”
We were lying in bed, resting; my head on his chest. His soft heartbeat gently caressing my cheek. A serene silence hovering above us. And time, in its idleness, framing the scene from a certain distance. That finger that ventures to trace new shapes, a bunch of disheveled hair, two freckles aligned beneath the navel. Wrapped up in silky sheets, sheltering our warm bodies.
"What’s on your mind?"
And I don't know where to start (how could I?), unsure if I should even attempt to define the love that I feel. The fear of losing what I’ll say the second I pronounce it, in a hushed murmur. If I keep it inside, protected as such, it will endure, I’d take care of it. It will endure. And I say something silly, I glance sideways and see him smile. He moves a few centimetres, and I move along with him, as a climbing plant seeking light, warmth, affection.
I’d like to open up a door right in the middle of my torso, through which he could reach my soul in just three steps, and explore, peacefully, its confinements. That would be easy, no words to limit the truth. Just one path, a very long one. On each side, there would be display windows holding fragments of what I am and what I want to be. He would wander, far away, maybe he’d take some time to examine one corner in more detail. Like a zoo for restrained emotions, exotic thoughts, and endangered sensitivities. I’d offer all of that with care, like a midwife placing a newborn in his mother's arms. He could return whenever he felt like it, or in those moments when he’d want to understand me, when he’d hear something silly I’ve said and, even though he’d see through me, he’d smile anyways.
The light in the room wanes with reluctance, jealous of us calmly losing time. We were lying in bed, almost part of the furniture, motionless. Our breaths synchronised, figures entwined in an intimate ensemble, only ours.
"What’s on your mind?"
"I love you."