Your footsteps left behind only silence, and I learned to speak with walls that never answer.

I don’t know how to desire without loving because I don’t know how to calm the tide —I’ll wrap my whole body around you, my arms around your neck, my legs at your waist—; the one that rises from my lungs as I try to swim toward your hands once more.

I didn’t see the coordinates; I had no intention of stopping to watch the sunset.

Dance with me inside the thin haze, stir the wind with your windmill arms and provoke the weather; challenge it, snatch away its blues and grays.

But now everything is calm and peace, and a feeling of pleasure foreign to him until that moment. Now he wants to live, but thanks to the war, even if he survives, that will be impossible.

Even though you insist on denying the affection you hide inside, it is enough for me to pause in your gaze, and at once I know you return it.

I could see his home-job hair dye around his mouth, around his hairline, black dye dotted like pepper, like a miniature Kusama, like I don’t prefer salt.

I understand the house as the body that receives us when the world gets too far inside us. Other times I feel the house inhabits me, and I don’t know if it is me or it that breathes.

I just try to survive everyday life and, sometimes after that, I speak out loud, repeating situations from the day, phrases I’ll forget tomorrow, because somehow I know it: I don’t belong here.

Vivía en el futuro del subjuntivo “añorando” por un sujeto que se rehusaba a encarnar sus textos. Una idea que se rehusaba a ser percibida, solo escrita, solo soñada.

Imagine the photograph: a woman alone, on the corner of an island, in the middle of winter, smoking her last cigarette.

Amidst the chaos of my head, I can’t help but imagine how you keep placing poppies in my hair. Let’s lie under this fake aurora borealis with the crisp night air…