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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The coffee cooled untouched, the light shifted, and in that small room of metal and shadow, she felt the strange mercy of being alive: unnoticed, unneeded, but undeniably here.

I allowed myself to wither in times of drought, when your words were not constant, and I stretched out my hands to see if I could reach a little of your attention, like someone searching for something in a drawer that has been stirred up over time, knowing they will never find it.

Tú me enseñaste el arte de acomodar libros y apuntes para aparentar una faena de tareas y sacrificio sobre el escritorio, para conservar el privilegio de quienes se entregan a la noche y la despiden igual, para beberse la madrugada.

I get bored doing nothing, and even though I know I should be doing other things, I never start them.

To rise and search for myself in the timeless waters, to carry myself always until I inhabit my body, to look the monster in the face and rescue myself from myself.