Stay here a while. Bridge the warm distance that rests between the spans of your hands and my face. Tell me, speak to me, shout to me in the familiar you, and tear out the voiceless lights with which I have been lighting your hallway; acne of exhausted brightness that stains your ankles in my memories. Curl up, shake the silent sarapes, open the window, move in once and for all and look straight at me; eat my face with slow blinks, like the swell of an aged gulf, serene, burdened. Seize my gestures while I mimeograph yours: eyebrows, nose, and mouth. Take it all and set it on fire; drag it away, strip its times, tangled in yesterdays and afters. Sit beside me and look straight at me, for the first time, wanting.
Listen to the crackle of the dry leaves and of my grimaces, my bones, my flesh, my life. I will run around the smoke, around you, howling, fleeing, giving tongue to the wounds that leave me drained, defenseless. 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. Today I want to see it rain, today I want to see it rain, today I want to see it rain; to become the wandering sand that rests in cratered potholes, a powder keg on the edge of a hill on crutches and hurl myself down. Let whatever remains fall, let it fall on me, let me fall.
Blow as hard as you can—I’m burning, I’m leaving, you are staying. Rest these pine-resin dreams in the warmth of your clothes and watch how it rains. Rain on me, protect me from the endless drizzle, for an adobe monument in hurricane season is the ultimate oxymoron; like saying your name, like sitting still, like not being.
Photography by Edgar Rocha
Writer and photographer from Mexico City and Baja California Norte. I've built a shrine around Stridentism and forgotten Infrarealism.