Tango

Sometimes the past smells not of perfume, but of electricity - when for a second it seems that somewhere nearby the light of those eyes will flash again, and the air will tremble with memory. It all ended long ago, but the body stubbornly remembers the rhythm of someone else's footsteps - as if a phantom lives inside, with whom one still has to dance. A kind of private ballet on the fragments of the heart, with impeccable steps.

And it seems clear: there is no love, only its shadow, thin and beautiful, like a ballerina on the tip of a memory. But how she knows how to return - light, barefoot, almost transparent. As if guilt itself had turned into a melody that is still impossible not to dance to.