I want to smear your face over mine and keep up with your step, pretend we are mushrooms, cursed gargoyles trembling to slow music, two punctured cans, a centerpiece, a set of spoons.

My tongue holds me, and I hold it as my home and my eternal friend. We keep forever the answer to people’s anxious doubt. I show it my cave, I perform an autopsy on myself, and it gives me the word—the sacred word.

Your laughter no longer fits in my nights, it slipped out through windows I never closed.

Dicen que no hay retorno. El invierno llegó, hoy se siente a ocho grados. No sé cuándo voy a volver, pero sí sé lo feliz que puedo ser.

Five springs ago I planted your memory in a tree that dried out, and I am responsible for that; in search of privacy to speak with you, I planted you far from the others.

Muted diminished thirds wobbled over open fifths. She pointed to the center of the guitar and said: the music is there inside, and it comes out on its tippy toes to dance in the light.

On land, your place in it will someday be remembered, and they will cry out who did not save you and hurry out to the sea to cradle you in your rebirth.

Others will come who will keep in their hearts the same useless longings, the same unsatisfied desires, the same foolish ambition that I have.

Pero no puedo evitar preguntarme…¿Alguna vez cruzaré por tu mente cuando no esté cerca? Si alguna vez paso por tu mente… ¿Te importaría, pensar un poco en mí?

You don’t have to rush; I can sleep somewhere else, on the floor, like during those months when your head was in your body but the thoughts inside it kept your body away from me.

No habrá un “no duermas más”, ni el perrito, ni el mercadito, los veinte dedos entrelazados: del lirio al delirio, del lirio al delirio.

I collect age like stones I can’t skip.