I tried to close my jaw, to stop the process, to interrupt that silent mechanism; but something remained open, insistent, beyond my control. And I understood that it was not a falling, but a form of revelation.

How important Sunday cleanings are. From time to time I discard my mental habits, along with what I have to wash.

They walked beneath the street scaffolding like ghosts rehearsing memory—each step a soft percussion against the bones of the city, against the gooseflesh of late Fall.

I’ve written you many others with touches of madness, mixed with sweetness—born from my fascination with Benedetti—paradoxes because of Borges, or pieces that lack a bit of sense in the spirit of Sabines.

It’s something I had never felt before. Something so beautiful, yet at the same time something that hurts so much.

On the other hand, the phrase that reality surpasses fiction reveals a fundamental aspect of human nature: our unsurpassable inclination to interpret and to construct fictions around chaos and randomness.

May those who lack the courage to remain silent transcend in their own way. May we find the way to share what is necessary. May my best poems be lost among lost pages.

And what do I want in life? I want books. I want art. I want to be generous with those who haven’t had the same opportunities as me. I want to be generous with my friends. I want to travel. I want to have a wonderful library and leave it to the small town I belong to.

No seas demasiado “sí” para una tormenta, porque no todos son aptos para recibir tus gotas con luz.

No one tells us that one of the worst kinds of death is the death of the worlds we build: the illusions, the stories we took as real, the futures we inhabited without even realizing it.

Your eyes, your laughter, your lips, your expressions, your hands, your ability to make me do whatever you said… I allowed myself to be blinded by beauty.

If possible, I would eat myself. My body, so thin, would surely be enough for a series of bites, a brief chewing.

Te mudaste dentro de mí como un inquilino, cubriendo con linóleo temporal los suelos de mí…

We sat across from each other, a cup of coffee in our hands, and began to remember school, our friends, the laughter, and those years when someone would secretly send songs, letters, and love poems.

From shadows and dissolving silhouettes, the morning rises, and between curtains of eyelashes, along a path paved with timid kisses, lips grope in the dark for a drop of dew that might condense their perfume.

It depends on the warmth of an embrace; on the way your partner looks at you on a Sunday afternoon; on the sound of your daughter’s breathing when she finally falls asleep in your arms.

I’ve lost count of how many things I’ve written about you, about me, or about us—but I do know this: there’s something we do exceptionally well. We pause ourselves for years, only to press “play” again and continue as if nothing had happened, as if everything had. 

We move through three main drives: necessity, homeostasis, and dopamine. In the end, we all have an intrinsic impulse that leads us to move forward, to board the bus, and to keep going. 

I am the host of an eternal procession, condemned to walk among the ruins of my own deeds, while the wind outside howls at me and marks me with a sorrowful sentence.

A flash blinded me. My eyes had turned to glass. I looked at the ground, and there it was: the darkness I feared so much seemed like the only option.

20 mg for his name 40 mg for his voice and the rest of the bottle to accept that it wasn’t love

And you said you would be eternal, like starlight... sempiternal. And yet not even starlight is eternal. And the only thing eternal is death.

There is something in that small voice that disarms you, that cleanses you, that reminds you that love can be simple and absolute.

Esa actitud ya está dentro de mi clasificación de transeúntes: el que considera que la responsabilidad de no chocar es de quien todavía habita el mundo físico, porque él no puede hacerse cargo; está ocupado en otra dimensión.

In the silence, ghost cities are not made of burning asphalt that scorches your feet, but of faces and names that spit my ruins into the unconscious of the universe.

The artist invites us into her unblooming, untidy garden to embrace our flaws and our nature: to love lazy days, unclean looks, and sleepless nights.

I walk barefoot to feel whatever life may offer; I give you the words everyone uses, but in the order my soul needs in order to rest within 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.

That summer we worked side by side, slowly learning each other’s names, our stories, and the quiet ways our souls seemed to understand one another, even if our bodies never crossed that line.