It’s something I had never felt before. Something so beautiful, yet at the same time something that hurts so much.

On the other hand, the phrase that reality surpasses fiction reveals a fundamental aspect of human nature: our unsurpassable inclination to interpret and to construct fictions around chaos and randomness.

May those who lack the courage to remain silent transcend in their own way. May we find the way to share what is necessary. May my best poems be lost among lost pages.

And what do I want in life? I want books. I want art. I want to be generous with those who haven’t had the same opportunities as me. I want to be generous with my friends. I want to travel. I want to have a wonderful library and leave it to the small town I belong to.

No seas demasiado “sí” para una tormenta, porque no todos son aptos para recibir tus gotas con luz.

No one tells us that one of the worst kinds of death is the death of the worlds we build: the illusions, the stories we took as real, the futures we inhabited without even realizing it.

Your eyes, your laughter, your lips, your expressions, your hands, your ability to make me do whatever you said… I allowed myself to be blinded by beauty.

If possible, I would eat myself. My body, so thin, would surely be enough for a series of bites, a brief chewing.

Te mudaste dentro de mí como un inquilino, cubriendo con linóleo temporal los suelos de mí…

We sat across from each other, a cup of coffee in our hands, and began to remember school, our friends, the laughter, and those years when someone would secretly send songs, letters, and love poems.

From shadows and dissolving silhouettes, the morning rises, and between curtains of eyelashes, along a path paved with timid kisses, lips grope in the dark for a drop of dew that might condense their perfume.

It depends on the warmth of an embrace; on the way your partner looks at you on a Sunday afternoon; on the sound of your daughter’s breathing when she finally falls asleep in your arms.