Have you ever had sex with a shadow?
That evening, in your apartment on the edge of the desert, you were bored to death. Perhaps you were already dead, dead to others, non-existent, visible only from 5000 kilometers, but invisible to those in front of you, invisible to the living.
You were playing with your red Leica, the one I had offered you on our return from Rome. And you photographed, or rather you were photographing your shadow, naked, projected on the white walls of your living room. Your left arm, dancing in the air. Your right arm, folded, pressing the trigger every second.
Your curves, your shades of black, your silhouette, your neck, your neck, your armpits, your arms, your camber, your breasts, your belly, your thighs, everything, half-tinged, with blurred edges, in a pale halo, through the prism of desire. Your long hair, you held it with your left hand, or you had knotted one of those chignons you know so well, adorning them with an old jewel.
And you know what I was coming and going in you, even if it was only the shadow of you.
More than once, I can tell you, I made love to your shadow. More than one time. And I have added a shadow to your shadow.