Victor Heringer

The Love of Singular Men

cheyanne

The first love is the only one. The years, the sex and the small constructions (child, own home, savings) make us accept more easily the faded copies we say we love during our lives, but even our open graves, waiting for us, speak of its absence. The first love can only be the first love because there's a second, obviously. (On TV, goal for Uruguay. The boy cheers. He doesn't know who's who. It's all in black and white.) That open mouth of earth, salivating cold rain. Mine will try to shout my Cosme's name when they feed it my coffin. It will gag, but a grave doesn't choke.

The tenderness I sometimes feel towards them both, if it swells a little more, turns to pain.

How did the smell of coffee get invented? The colours of our skins? Other civilizations?

The Love of Singular Men

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