The landscape is still there, quiet, patient, while life begins to grow again in the corners where you are no longer.

I want to lose myself in your eyes like in streets without a map, drink your laughter like the oldest wine.

I woke up wanting to go to the movies, but I remembered there aren’t any left. I also woke up wanting to read a book, but they stopped printing them long ago. Today I woke up wanting to know the news, but I remembered everything always gets worse.

In a living Stations of the Cross, I walk. I carry the cross of my decisions: for choosing to live life like a Shakespearean play, for choosing to render it into poetry on this page.

I don’t like your name. I never have. But your name was carried by someone I always loved.

The kind of piercing memory that arrives when you doubt yourself. Like the feeling of leaving home and sensing that something is missing. Like forgetting the last item on the grocery list.

When you develop film, you have the negative of everything you shot, but the photograph is consummated only once you have the positive, whether in black and white or color. Therefore, the negative is like an abstraction: a guide toward the final image.

I think of you in empty cafes and broken lights, in melodies no one understands but we do.

Respirar, una mañana blanca e intentar y sospechar y volver a intentar después de que el filo de todas las injusticias que se acumulan en tu sonrisa me hayan abierto de par en par en paralelo…

Your cry rose above the silence of the graves. It searched, in the deepest recesses of souls, for the will surrendered to fear.

Never had I seen such a beautiful statue so forgotten: “Reading contemporary novels, woman of oxidized copper.”

I run up and downstairs, up and downstairs, turn my room upside down, and tidy it up again. It's spotless, but the cup I'd poured myself is cold again, and I resign myself to using the microwave.