Post-coital melancholy does not begin after.
It begins slightly before it ends.
I cannot always point to the exact moment.
I only notice that something is already withdrawing while it is still happening.
There is a strange second in which the body is still present, but attention is not.
I try to call it a “descent.”
The word does not fit.
Not because it is wrong.
But because it arrives too late.
I realize silence does not appear when everything ends.
It was already there, waiting for a signal I do not remember giving.
The contact has not fully broken.
But I no longer know if it is still occurring.
The room of chalk does not change.
But there is a new mark on the wall.
It was not there before.
I think.
I look at it longer than necessary.
And something uncomfortable happens:
the longer I look, the more it starts to feel like it was always there.
I do not know when I sat up.
I do not remember changing position.
But the angle of the body no longer matches the memory of it.
For a moment I think it is just fatigue.
The thought dissolves on its own.
There is no fall.
Only a continuity that loses one of its witnesses.
I keep trying to locate the end.
I cannot find it.
Not because it is hidden.
But because it has already been absorbed by what came after.
And that is the only thing that should not be possible.
I blink.
I am not sure I blinked.
The room remains the same.
I do not.
There is no clear separation.
Only a kind of adjustment that does not announce itself.
And at some point, without deciding it, I understand the problem is not loss.
It is that there was never a moment of separation.
Only a change of state without visible transition.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
