Skull

It was a skeleton, not so special, just a skull that read the "Little Prince" and thought of his own rose ...
She was just as pretentious, with a void as big as her own. "That's my Catrina," he murmured as he read, "complainer, absorbing and beautiful," he muttered at the end with a broken sigh. The taciturn skull closed the book like someone who clothes a child with great care. He left the story in a movement that could be eternal and then went to a dusty box with moldy photographs, sought in his memoirs a reason to love her; found a thousand.

He decided then that it was worth joining their gaps-maybe both gaps are not a bigger one-he thought out loud as he walked towards the door, convinced not to make the mistake of the character of Saint-Exupéry. When he left, he shook his head to get rid of the melancholy, he smiled a smile of hope and lengthened his steps, hurrying the way that was eternal even if it was tiny. When he turned the last corner, he no longer walked, but ran, his bones, long and wobbly, were already united only by the vague hope of seeing that smile.

He tortured that passage: "I could not understand anything then, I should have judged her for her actions and not for her words, she perfumed and enlightened my life, I should not have fled!", He would not despise the rose to realize later Of his mistake, how wise was that little story, how late would he have reacted? Each thought lit a fire that impelled him with speed to the arms of his beloved rose of bones.

Catrina

Vain and dreamy Catrina admired herself in the mirror, sitting coquettishly on top of a tombstone, sighing for her luck in love, she did not know what she wanted, as she wanted it, or whoever she wanted, however, she wanted something indefinite in her mind, she sought incessantly between objects that made him feel, introduced into his empty chest: wilted flowers, old pipes, antique clocks, old photographs, golden reliquaries and an endless supply of junk acquired, most of the time, with his smile, the others with his caresses, but unfailingly nothing that he drew from his lovers filled him in the least with that immense hole.

One day he remembered the skull that he wanted only with poems, she thought so strongly that you could hear his feeling just by seeing it -from so many compliments and promises it will be a poem from that old skull that will comfort me and my chest tranquility-sought in the sea of ​​sentiments some writings, some made cry, others made laugh and seeing all that happened to her body was set in motion, went to the gate of the cemetery swift.

She thought incessantly that there was no other solution to her problem, that this time if he would heed his call and accept his poems with joy, the hope in her mind flowed like a fountain that overflowed between her head and his hat, bathing his black hair When he came out to the gate he was clear and happy, turned to see the street, which despite being dark, seemed beautiful on that full moon night, took a breath and ran until he reached the corner as if pushed by a thousand raging horses.

Both of them

Those old rags were found, under the moonlight, both in high hats, both of them absorbed by desires, they were for a moment in the eyes, he thought -I do not want to be hurt again- she saw him and lamented - I dont want to hurt him with my emptiness - He made a gesture of greeting with his hand on the hat, she responded with a trembling smile and the same gesture, he sighed, she turned her eyes, they both went their way, he to the cemetery, she to the forgetfulness.

END

Original photography, concept, makeup, edition and text by
Michel Camacaro exclusive for Steemit

Special thanks to @myzik who lent himself to make up and take the photos
and @maiqueltorcatt who made me the assistance with my own photograph

Logo original of @carloscabeza