Lying down, she tumbles over the bed, like a chess piece that falls doing what is right to do along the play's course.
Following her, I also lay down flowing with the continuous flux of our conversation. I hear my words, I can imagine my lip's movement and with eyes fixed on hers, I call her to realize the image: the sunray is still there through the curtains, lighting the place, and I'm golden hair on tan skin.
On that moment, the waltz gets linear arrowed to the direction of fusion.
