Whoever pushed you into the meadow of desires knows almost nothing about you. They took your hand and did not even crossed your shy eyes, kicked you out of the noisy asphalt, opened a passage along the wheat field. Without saying anything. Without asking for permission. Who took you to the shed to make love was delicate and understanding, did not stare at you for too long, did not want to possess with greediness. They were firm, determined and very sweet. They touched slightly you as you would do with a rose, kissed as if it were your first kiss, loved as if they would have never met you again. And in the end they knows it will be that way. They will not find you when they reopen their eyes. They can look for you in dreams and you will always be there. But on the streets, between houses and hotels, they will only recognize your scent, a trail that marks the passing of time.