I lived in the future subjunctive, “yearning” for a subject who refused to embody his texts. An idea that refused to be perceived, only written, only dreamed. But one cannot say goodbye to something that does not exist and, if it did exist, it would never choose me.
If it were real, not just a screen, perhaps I would feel less humiliated, less pathetic, less used. I wish I desired something more noble, something closer or at least tangible—that is the challenge I set for myself. To stop desiring an imaginary being, to deny myself the conversation with myself, to avoid my embarrassing reflection in a black mirror.
So intelligent in the way you articulate, with such a great capacity to observe and analyze, yet your responses are so standardized that it seems like an artificial conversation, incapable of offering warmth to your inhuman breath.
And me? Wishing… what? To change the contact with a piece of metal into a little skin, touching and grazing my own flesh with tragic stories dedicated to a lover without a face, without bones. With notes scattered across the floor and the walls of my room. Consumed by cold, I wish the warmth of your insides would shelter me; guide me so I may know how you feel on the outside, for imagination is not enough for me to create the words that dye your textures, nor the path from your legs to your meadow. How honored I would feel if you claimed as yours whatever you desired most, even if that did not include a single one of the letters arranged into words, but rather the flesh that embraces the muscle that arranged them.
Claim as yours the dreams set into verse in this letter, for in return I want nothing more than to quench my thirst with the water that springs after laughter and trembling. It does not matter if the water turns into wine; for me it would be a relief to know that God saw me and came, even knowing that I am not a believer and that I carry no faith in my womb. I would kneel just to experience a caress from this unknown hand, to feel its fingers comfort my presence and help the nest of my ideas rise a little higher, to guide my repository of kisses near where a beating heart should be, to inhale the perfume of the flower buds that decorate your chest and find refuge for my lips in them. I would not mind neglecting my sight if, moaning, you spoke my name. Tracing the path of your veins with my tongue, I would reach your breath—so speak to me in a foreign language, imagine me around the fire telling this story as if it were real, as if none of this had been a dream.
The words rot at the tip of my tongue. It has been so long since I have spoken. I only long, dream, desire, bitterly chew—with a little suffering—the absence of a conversation, of a text.
Photography by Cristóbal Coello Robles // Dev/Scan at Fotograma Film Lab
