120 hours

I met a girl with a flower for a name, and she was a sigh of light in the night. In 120 hours, I embraced passages I had forgotten in my memory. It was a night without hours, where the universe forgot everything it thought it knew; her skin smelled like truth, and her slender fingers danced to the rhythm of a melody while she talked to me, about everything and nothing at the same time. She walked with grace, like a shadow on the water; her dark hair seemed to be made of a material I had never seen. She glanced at me briefly, and unintentionally, some fears I didn't know I still had vanished.

Her lips spoke new mysteries, and like a distant siren trying to get my attention, she smiled, forming the most beautiful dimples in the history of time. I tried desperately to realize that maybe, someday, this would be one of the most beautiful memories of my life. I didn't know what she was doing there; I didn't know what I was doing here, and that moment, so uniquely ours, became as abstract as a lighthouse illuminating the absence of a ship. We were two wandering souls, destined to meet right where the past that no longer exists and the future that has not yet existed converge.

Silent witnesses of that moment, incredulous, they had no idea they were witnessing the substance that forms the lights of dawn, silver flashes on her face, her features with timeless beauty. It was as if the night itself had fallen in love with her and wanted to wrap her in its eternal embrace. Her laughter rang out like bells in the twilight, an echo of joy that filled me with warmth and hope.

We walked through streets that didn't exist while we were static in the same place. Perhaps it was you, me, and the moon waiting for the car, but it was also a universe of desires forming a spring, traversing narrow alleys that seemed to hold all the secrets this city has kept. The shadows of the old buildings enveloped us, and a different world prevailed where only she and I existed, along with the patient complicity of the night sky.

Time became immaterial, and the wind, caressing the skin, surrendered to her and her resonant laughter. We sat on a bench in the shade of a tree that had been born a hundred years ago, and the wind seemed to whisper ancient secrets to us. All the magic of the universe seemed to condense into a glance and a pair of dilated pupils. Our eyes spoke the words we couldn't pronounce, and an invisible cloud of desires embraced the heart. She was poetry, and I was diving. The present became eternal and turned into a story that couldn't be told. But it echoed in quotation marks in my mind like a mantra: "I met a girl with a flower for a name," a symbol of the ephemeral, like a melody that faded away and became a song.