Gardenias

I want to flee from the unrestrained copies cast over my past weeks and the childish stumbles with which I wept against the trunk of a tree days before dying; to shout straight at my impostor twins who try to pull me by the laces and trade me for their acrylic faces, their plastic steps and their electronic voices; to become the substitute for my own self and ask forgiveness for the times I wished not to title the days with my name, without surnames. My paradise out of sync with the mountain peaks proposed by vernacular religious men; an exercise far from the evening lights and the executor of the fiercest kicks upon the ribs of the archangel who wants to sell us a timeshare in what, in his very particular view, should be my path of retreat.

No. I want to break my ambiguous cycle and stamp my scattered faith across these dirty mosaics, sticky with sodas and alcohol; I want to intervene directly between the promised death and the absurd need to live until I can spin you once more through the open squares left by the güiro and the drumstick. 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.

Come, for I love you as much as I ignore heaven—that heaven of holy water and wafers, of harps and grapes; I love us here, within the bounded distances of this peeling hall, in the echo of the speakers, beneath the caress of neon lights and smoke machines. I love you in this wretched life; I venerate every dance step in which I step on you, you step on me, I see you, you see me, we apologize between our sleepless smiles and chew the pulp of the taste of loving you, until the next song plays and I can repeat to you, while alive, how long I would wait for you if you told me you were going to the bathroom and never came back.

Photography by Larren Lee // Dev/Scan at Foto Hércules