The Soul of an Umbrella

I lean on you, on your arm, with my fingertips I press your arm. This is no longer the grip of my hand, this is my soul, that has made its home in every joint of my fingers. This is no longer your arm, this is now a shrine against which I have leaned my soul. As a pair, together, together, we pass – under one umbrella – through the rainy streets of the city. – past the market selling umbrellas of loneliness. – The windows of this city, every drop of rain in this city, will remember us: one soul with a smile on its lips in two bodies, forever strolling through the crowd, under one umbrella ...