Agony

I feel old,
over the years I am becoming
of letters on paper
and unwashed memories.
One hundred percent flammable.

Me,
like those of the old guard,
I am condemned to love you
for the rest of your days,
and to write to you
the rest of mine.

I look at you,
and I find out why
of my old age.
I remember the reproaches
that furrowed my soul,
the “no” and the “neither”.

But it's you
my goal.
It is to you
to where
always
I will want
running.

I feel sick,
my discomforts are interpreted
as chronic clouding,
and growing apprenticeship.
Completely voluntary.

Me,
such as Piñon, Castellanos, Pizarnik,
-or any other
I am doomed to love
for the rest of my days,
and may it be for you
if I perish.

This poem is a smoke signal,
an epitaph,
any love verse
that hurts.

Ven,
that could
die
without returning
to see you.

Photography by Denis Ryabov