Maybe while you're washing the dishes you'll remember us, Atlixco and the roses I sent you. And you'll think about what we could have been, and you'll look for me, but you'll see that you're already blocked. Maybe when you're at your birthday party and you get to those 30 seconds when you wonder if the people around you are really the people you want in your life, you'll remember the way I taught you to open doors, you'll remember some stupid joke I'm good at and you'll laugh your ass off trying to find me, but you're not going to find me. Or maybe you'll never remember me again in your life or what we lived and they are just my fucking illusions because I want you to love me, to look for me and come back.
I know it's not right, I know it's not good for me, I know it's always going to end badly, but who can save me? I don't feel like crying again, but I also feel like grabbing you with kisses and biting your lips, getting stuck while I grope you under your skirt and lick your neck, even if later I want to spit because it only tastes like perfume, see? I get really bad when I think of you. The good thing is that the bus is coming, I have to get on it and with a little luck I'll spend the next 40 minutes thinking about how much it pisses me off to use public transportation because it gets really crowded, even if the cumbias and salsas that I used to sing to you in the wee hours of the morning are playing.
Born in CDMX, but Caribbean by his mother's decision, back in CDMX for a love that always did end. Enthusiast of mezcal and street art.