One of these days,
I don’t know how or when,
I will have to burn the ships
between my world and yours.
It will not be my desire
to conquer ancient empires,
nor to prevent a cowardly retreat,
nor to venture into unknown lands,
but simply to renounce the piercing illusion
of one who believes they can return
to the same place they once departed from.
After a bitter cup of coffee,
or upon reading your name in a novel,
I will accept that my longing is in vain.
I will go for a couple of matches,
but I will strike only one of them,
I will watch its fragile flame,
and I will cast it onto our ships.
Then I will dream that it begins to rain,
I will think of the miracle of the ocean
and I will lament not having a bucket.
Contemplation will be the only alternative.
The fragile flame will make its way
across the wood we once held together
and it will become an unforgiving fire.
They will burn—
the glances,
the caresses,
the promises,
and the dreams.
Not a single drop will fall from the sky.
Photography by Edgar Rocha
