We were standing in the middle of the street.
The wind was blowing, cooling my skin, drying my lips, undoing my hair, unraveling my colored dress, melting away the earth tones of the afternoon air.
I looked at the buildings around us. Instantly they started deteriorating under our very eyes. They were growing older: channels entrenched into their facades, channels left by painful tears on wax faces.
Wet leaves caught in Miguel’s hair; the old laurel wreath of dead heroes.
Miguel stared at me believing that my love would save him.
I stretched my left arm and touched his cracked lips.
“I am the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. I cannot save you. Go away, go to the end of this world, and wait for me there. Between two lives, between two centuries, between two sufferings, I’ll look for you. I’ll find you, and then I’ll heal you. Now, I am just the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. He who touches me dies.”
Tears were falling from his eyes.
Around us mounds of ocre humid sand.
No buildings were left.