“I like the….”, she started saying something else. I was confused, after a lot of context-switching I could finally get her to say what she likes. “I like the wind, with your hand in mine.”

I like the wind too. Specially the wind when we were sitting outside in the balcony, drinking, fighting, not knowing what’s in store for us ahead. 

I like the wind too. Specially the wind on the cloudy day just before we boarded that bus to the hotel in Florence. I was excited to go to the hotel because I knew she would love the place. A fever dream.

I like the wind too. Specially the wind when I have her in my arms in the balcony with Hotel California playing in the background. She knows every word. I know a few. I purposely, with a delay, follow her fluttering lips when she sings.

I like the wind too. Specially the wind by that river, when she was finding out ways to inscribe that sacred word. The wind when she took the little branch in her tiny hands and got to work, digging. “Clearly, you haven’t gardened before.”, she said. “No, I haven’t, how else would I get to look at this passionate little digging of yours, my love.”, I murmured to myself.

I like the wind too. Specially the wind that throws the saline water on our faces from the waves hitting the shore. The salty kisses. Her delightful face when she’s by the sea. My heart pacing, when I get to see her in that unwavering happiness.

I like the wind too. Specially the wind when she can’t light her cigarette, so that I could light it for her. Because, wind.

The wind is always there, in the background. I’m even deeper in the background, noticing it—drowning in her love. It gives me tiny slaps on my heart, and I’m always reminded how much I love her. 

Isn’t that what we are? 

Crystallized atoms, dancing in the beautiful orchestra of the wind?