Geometry of the One Who Waits

Absence is not a gap: it is a line that goes on even when you take away both its points.

I sit at the exact corner where time turns and never comes back with the same face.

I have measured patience with the only ruler I own: the shadow, which stretches without asking my permission.

They say that waiting is doing nothing. A lie. I wait with both hands, with my breathing, with the obtuse angle of one who still believes.

And when you arrive —if you arrive— the geometry comes undone and only this is left: two bodies, round, without edges, against the evening.