At this point in time, the blue of the sky finds its place against the dirty brown of Sagrada Familia; the yellow of the setting sun against the burned red of the bricked apartments; the off-white of the clouds against the tanned brown skin, the jet black eyes, the cold fingers, the beating heart, the moving lips, slightly apart�oh if you knew.

If only you knew nothing is as beautiful as these moments, these moments between moments, I would be happy to leave them as they are. I would leave the room before the sun rises, while you are still in bed, and your toes dangling slightly from beneath the covers. I would leave even without you knowing, even when I have already left.

I would leave them where they belong in the sky, miles above. I would look at them occasionally, searching for the moment in time when the sky with clouds looks like the sky with clouds of this painting, and I would think of you. I would leave them there, hanging, like how you always left me, but I would be happy anyway, to see them. Anyway.

To this sky with clouds I would tell her everything I wish I have told you but couldn't, wouldn't, never will. I would tell her stories of creation, destruction, of losing, letting go, of forgetting. I would pray, as I'm saying this, that you would look up and notice her, too.