she woke me up, proudly holding flowers out to me. she had picked them all pink, of course. seven roses, two more than her age. i took her in my arms and kissed her, but she was obviously bothered by something. i laid the bouquet, delicately sprinkled with little white flowers whose name i didn't know, beside me, and turned to her. it didn't take long before she started to talk. 'you know, i will always look after you', she said. 'i will give you coughing syrup and wrap my shawl around your neck and mouth, and i will give you my winter coat and i will tremble in the cold'.
i felt something like a dark knot in my belly, a pain expanding in my body, but i couldn't react. she continued, quickly: 'you are the most beautiful in the world, nobody is as beautiful as you'. it was already too much, i burst out: 'no, no, this can't be, you are, and even more beautiful'. she looked upset, and brushed my words away, in an almost angry tone which left me no option but silence, again: 'no, don't argue with me. it is you who is the most beautiful'.
she hid her face in her hands: ' i don't want to see the world's face ever again, i only want to look at you'.
no lover has ever told me more beautiful words. i told her that, that nobody, ever, had had such words for me - yet this seemed to throw her further into some kind of distress which at first i didn't understand, she kept repeating, with a growing look of desperation on her face: 'but i don't have any words left to tell about this, how beautiful you are, i can't find any words, what am i going to do now, what?'
suddenly, she stood up, covered her ears with her hands and said, calmly, as if she had reached some definitive conclusion, witnessed an irrevocable truth: 'if there are no more words left for me, then... i'll explode. ' booooom - still covering her ears, she let herself fall on the bed, pretending that she was dead.
only if one looked very carefully, her breath would be visible, gently coming in and out her mouth, trembling for a moment in the air before scattering upon the glimmering roses. only a rose, it struck me amidst my perplexity, such numbness that i couldn't even rise my hand to touch her, only a rose can be without inner combustion, when there are no more words to tell of beauty and love. yet we all forget this truth, as we grow up, and the art of exploding, the only one which could give the real measure of our being, is forever lost.