Others will come who will keep in their hearts the same useless longings, the same unsatisfied desires, the same foolish ambition that I have.

Pero no puedo evitar preguntarme…¿Alguna vez cruzaré por tu mente cuando no esté cerca? Si alguna vez paso por tu mente… ¿Te importaría, pensar un poco en mí?

You don’t have to rush; I can sleep somewhere else, on the floor, like during those months when your head was in your body but the thoughts inside it kept your body away from me.

No habrá un “no duermas más”, ni el perrito, ni el mercadito, los veinte dedos entrelazados: del lirio al delirio, del lirio al delirio.

I collect age like stones I can’t skip.

I thought that maybe I don’t want to get rid of the bag, but of the idea that the things that accompany us for so long can simply be replaced, just like that.

The best thing you left behind was your brutal tenderness, and even though we remained two strangers, you were my sigh dressed in dreams.

Music, it can be said, travels on the shoulders of pebbles dropped into ponds of still water.

Being inactive is discovering that the world doesn’t collapse if I don’t hold it up. That the house survives the dinosaur. That the couch is also a point of view. That not producing is not disappearing.

The first time the robin appeared, I still didn’t know how to hold the word death in my mouth. It fell apart, like a bite I couldn’t quite swallow.

I hold great affection for this version of myself: the writer capable of convincing others through words, yet incapable of convincing himself.

Escitalopram in the mornings. Pregabalin at night. And if things get intense, Quetiapine.

My objects come to life—they get angry and scold me, because the desire to try slips away through my gaze.

So, I think I'd like you to tell me that everything's fine, that underneath everything's fine, that there are scratches and dents, but that everything's fine.

The world is beastly, roguish, wicked — little garden angels. I have not seen freedom on the hot asphalt, suffocated by rubber, by shoes worn out from fatigue, by baby strollers, by urine, by saliva, by tears. 

They call you dead who do not know you live behind eyelids, inside too-long-unopened drawers, on some postcard lost enroute, tucked into a postman’s back pocket.

I walk against the wind, feeling my body clothe itself in tremor. I have lost my lucidity amid the dazzling, strange lights of this city. 

The jacaranda tree at my house and I share the same age. In 1987, she was planted in a garden bed in Santa María Morelia, and I was taken from María Emma’s womb.

I walk with the feeling of listening to the same thing twice. The street imitates the song, or the song imitates the street. I take off one earbud for a second, just to make sure the city is still there.

At the summit of Wat Tham Suea, at the feet of the Buddha, a yellow butterfly circled me.

Pasajeros se entrelazan, chaquetas sin usar, mentes sin usar, fusionándose, desplazándose, moviéndose…

Without appetite, without strength, I am an apparition in my own home, where my family stopped seeing me long ago and, when they do, it is with the firm conviction of avoiding me like a flying insect that exists only to bother others.

Though for some it may seem like a childish exaggeration, like that fear or thrill from childhood of feeling chased by the moon, I know the sun will never again cast its shadow in quite the same way.

Lo sabía, sabía que el último tren había dejado la estación desde hacía mucho, ese tren que podía llevarme a páramos maravillosos donde el amor y el calor me bañarían constantemente…

Lo único que recuerdo de aquella escena es un abrazo que te hizo quedarte y que yo no huyera de aquel momento, ese abrazo nos hizo quedarnos… 

Eternity can also be three hours of kisses: in the front seat, in the darkness downtown, with your favorite song on loop until dawn.

Ghost with wide eyes, wandering in the background of photographs and in the reflection of windows: you often stroll through my mind with your light gait that makes me smile, as if your memory were an inside joke I speak about with myself when I’m alone.

Quiero soñar contigo… y con la luna y su lado oscuro; ese lado que nadie en la Tierra jamás ha visto.

But, no, this is not us. This is not ours. This is not me.

The landscape is still there, quiet, patient, while life begins to grow again in the corners where you are no longer.