***
The shoulders
to hide behind,
to climb or conquer
nights long,
the contrapposto pose,
the serenity and monumental
devotedness
to me –
even the busy and indifferent
Rue Froissart
fell silent,
when you, David,
were standing still,
awaiting
to cover me
inside this winter,
to hold in tishina the windows
and the columns
of one Delhaize shop –
the robust marble of love.
When I encountered your mountain,
the only word
that danced inside my mind
was
“perfect.”
A quite brunch hour,
when waiters are focused
on putting the plates and
cutlery around
the tables,
when cafe owners
don’t notice you
towering over my coffee,
drinking my eyes –
ignorant of almost everything
worth to observe.
Sitting in front of you, David,
by far,
was even better
than standing in the Hermitage
Museum…
You gifted me
the most Renaissance
of all the mornings
in Brussels.
Your massive shoulders
were
my wings
under the milliard drops of rain
this Thursday afternoon,
I suddenly thought
you were mine
rather than
Michelangelo’s…
