The Terrace

…I know, I cannot leave this place
full of memories
Robert Wyatt/Soft Machine: “Memories”
…Everything is very quiet
Everyone has gone to sleep
I’m wide awake on memories.
These memories can’t wait…
David Byrne/Talking Heads: “Memories can’t wait”


emories of a time long gone and still so close to that intimate and silent place called heart…
It’s almost impossible to forget those moments, acts of a play on a stage without walls.
The Terrace was the stage of a play without words.
The mind was the only protagonist and what the mind could not express with words then music became the script, ethereal and changeable, unsteadfast and still so strong that the passing years could not bleak its shining sparkle.

This is not only for sharing. It’s for me to go back to those moments of pure poetry, of almost transcendent happiness and bittersweet regret that still accompanies my most intimate memories. Indeed, those memories can’t wait…

The Terrace

A sheen of sweat begins to form on the whole body.

The stereo radiates soft vibrations through the sizzling air.

They reach the ear. Clear, filtered, amplified, smothered, broken, unperturbed, warm, full of echoes, caressing, cold, all at once, depending on the thought that crosses the mind trapped in the body that lies down on the terrace floor.


The path is short. Nothing is lost. Everything reverberates.

The sun is not pleasant anymore.
Time for a shower.
The water is hot, warmed up by the dreadful heat.

The music has changed.

The perception becomes more welcome while the water drips along the chest, back and hips. It plunges between the legs, it descends along the calves and forms a puddle that gradually expands, becoming warmer and warmer.

Turning the head, the dazzled glance rests upon her legs.
Unrestrained, lightly parted, as if to reveal and conceal the eaves of the sleek swimsuit.

The glance now moves upwards to the belly.

The breasts move imperceptibly.

A droplet of sweat traces a sinuous, shiny line.
It is as if one could hear its whispering noise while it descends towards the navel.

The water is now icy.

Walking on the scorching red tiles, it’s nice to feel the water evaporating off the foot-soles.

As if by chance, the two hands brush.
Not a muscle moves.
The heart pulses visibly between the ribs.

It’s soothing to slide behind the bright red curtain of the closed eyelids.

The mind takes the time to form thoughts, savoring the pleasure of their own becoming into existence, without the need to throw them on the waves of the indolent conversation.

A sip of icy Martini slides down the throat, it pours down and feels cold and hot at the same time.

Yearn to feel the smoke invading the body, the subtle crackle of the burning paper, the delicate pleasure of brushing her side with the fingertips.

Unreasonable impulse to stroke her cheek, to gently taste the shiny beads of perspiration on her lip.

The hand remains suspended.
The heat blocks the movement halfway.

Lingering of naked feet on the scorching pavement in the room without a roof, while the noises from the street do not reach this height.

A new presence.

Effort to get out of the warm torpor and greet the newcomer.

The phrases slowly decrease, remain suspended in mid-air, then die altogether.

The sun kills everything.

Need to take another shower.
The same idea occurred to her as well.
The water is hot again, it burns, then splashes on the ground; the droplets bounce back, stinging the legs.
And then… the coolness.
The flow is directed in turn toward the other, it caresses what the hand doesn’t dare to brush.

The water becomes an extension of the body, playing with the other.

The skin shivers at the touch.

Back to the hot pavement.

The water trapped between the skin and the hair warms up, while the rest evaporates, leaving a strange sensation of coolness.

Once again, the closed eyelids become the red-tinted stage of a troubled slumber.

A new sip of Martini descends to take its long desired place.


The circuit is restarted, tickled by the ebb behind the alcohol wave.

Remaining dead still on the floor produces a pleasant tingling sensation, as if floating upon an ocean of microscopic air bubbles.

A faintest breath of air brings her scent, arisen from who knows where.

The mind becomes blurred, the alcohol finally reacts.

A warm tiredness descends from the chest to the arms, eventually emanating from the fingertips.

The guitar weaves strange vibrations.

The skin stings  into a pleasant shiver.

The eyes, now open, are fixed upon a white jet trail cutting the immobile mirror of the sky with an oblique trajectory that curves as if closely following Earth’s contour.

The palm of the hands rest on the ground, absorbing the heat.
The warmth changes into vibration and then sways over the whole body.

A movement on the left…
She gets up for another shower.

The mind follows her every move from behind the closed eyelids.
Its perception extends like minute sensible tendrils. reaches for her, wraps around her, becoming the now resounding water.

Two people laugh while they cross the threshold.
Their laughter bounces off the invisible walls of the terrace.

The mind withdraws into itself, offended by the sudden intrusion, turning back to the place where it originated and is shocked by the thoughts it finds.
Thoughts that had continued to reproduce during its absence.

The noise of wet feet draws closer.
The last droplets fall and moisten the chest lying on the ground.

It’s time to roast the back as well…
Turn around with excruciating slowness, with the least possible effort.
Everything must be done with extreme slowness, or the lingering spell will be shattered.

The rustling of a bird’s wing travels from ear to ear.


The terrace becomes crowded.

The voices are growing in number and volume.

The mind can hardly concentrate.

The contact is lost.

Everything fades into an insistent murmur that creeps into:






The delicate balance is lost.

She is far away…


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.