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Since you wrote to me, on that clear, distant day, I have wanted to explain to you, that I can't get away from the days, or return in time to that other time. I have not forgotten you - the nights are long and difficult. The water. The ship and the dock and the parting which made you appear so small, to my eyes, framed in that round porthole, and you gazing at me so as to keep me in your heart. Everything is untouched. Later, came the days, new of you. Today, I wish my sun could touch you. I tell you, your eyeball is my eyeball, the puppet characters all arranged in their large glass room, belong to us both. Yours is the huipil with magenta ribbons. Mine the ancient square of your Paris, above all, the magnificent - [Place] des Vosges.
so forgotten and so firm. Snail shells and the bride-doll, is yours too - I mean, it is you. Her dress, is the same one she wouldn't take off on the day of the wedding to no-one, when we found her half asleep on the dirty sidewalf of some street. My skirts with their lace flounces and the antique blouse I always wore XXXXXXXX paint the absent portrait of only one person. But the color of your skin, of your eyes and your hair change with the winds in Mexico. The death of the onld man pained us so much that we talked and spent the day together. To too Know that all my eyes see, all I touch with myself, from any distance, is Diego. The caress of fabrics, the color of colors, the wires, the nerves, the pencils, the leaves, the dust, the cells, the war and the sun, everything experienced in the minutes of the non-clocks and non-calendars and the empty non-glances is him. You felt it, that's why you let that ship take me away from Le Havre where you never said goodbye to me.
I will write to you with my eyes,
always. Kiss XXXXXXX the little girl . . .