FARO

It's strange I don't remember your face your eyes I have no memory of any of your body parts except for your toes they're like little, disciplined soldiers in black military uniforms in summer they get loose on the pavements of the city that we used to share the name of Faro, Portugal doesn't derive from ''far'' as I naively thought it just means a lighthouse I touch the tip of my right ear and get surprised at how soothing it is, almost therapeutic, I'm two again you don't see this morning's jogger who is almost caricature-like we're both free from having to bump into each other and from having to wear our masks of indifference what am I going to do with the mental image of your black-painted toes on a summer afternoon?