I wonder if your cats have felt my absence.
I wonder if the floor of the room has felt the absence of my bare feet and the shower of my body.
I wonder if the mirrors still passes my reflection, sometimes. For a while I'm there that I smile to my real picture, that, no, there is no more.
I wonder if the sill of the balcony reminiscent of the rim of my glass of coffee resting on a summer afternoon, and if the refrigerator has noticed that I did not open anymore.
I wonder if the chairs have kept my sense of the weight of the mattress and the cast of my sleep. I wonder if
lockers still smell my perfume and handles recognize the touch of my hands.
I wonder if the pillow still has the shape of my hair and my cheek.
I remember the soft fur and sharp claws, brown tiles at an angle with the sun, the smell and the silence, the warm water, kitchen and wood to heat the chicken ready, my leg folded on the chair the quiet square of your room, ready to crumble in the colors of my suitcase defeat, pleasant sleep, and what does not arrive, the strength of convictions, the lightness and heaviness of laughter and tears over all the breaths.
And then the door closes.
Rest a moment to look at the doormat outside the plant, the plate with the names, then I turn around and go down the stairs.
I wonder if the gate remember my boots propped to swing?
