I failed you unintentionally, with the blindness of someone who fears losing the only thing that gives them meaning. And in that clumsiness, learn to look inward, to find in me the peace I sought in your eyes.

Your feelings for me disappeared so instantly that I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to hold your hand and never let go, which is perhaps why I asked you out for coffee that night, for the last time. 

He entered the hotel wanting to check in. Without documents, without luggage, without proof.

I reread the message, erase it. I reread the message, erase it.

Soledad, a story that never ends, legs whose history I must cry out. Those six lines that ended your freedom. Your name profaned, your life profaned, the light born from your voice profaned.

Once I was a sailor, one of those who tie the knots, intoxicated by the breeze of a tortuous sea and imaginary seagulls.

On the other side of the continent, on the other side of the ocean, on the other side of the world. In the farthest place that exists, there is a country where everything belongs to you.

This is not a dream. Or maybe it is… It’s the story of a road that knew me before I knew myself and of the moment when time stopped being a line and became an echo.

The wine cools on the table, no one toasts and no one sings, the empty chair remains, and an echo of your worn voice.

I, the one of the river I do not carry, endure: I can only give you, I can only offer you the calm imposed on the starving, the barren lands of the skin.

My cheeks smile, turn into two pieces of chocolates, and a grimace crosses my face. It tells my fingers to follow its rhythm. Head that usually goes many (several) kilometers per hour, now stealthily descends.

Doing without glasses on purpose: perhaps in that opaque imperfection lies the beauty of things.

Now I realize: I feel alone. I get overwhelmed. I listen. Outside, chaos. Inside, you.

I know I should love others as Jesus loves me, but with you, it becomes a bit difficult. Still, I hope you open your eyes soon and return to your humanity, and not your ambitions.

Because without your name I am incomplete, because your name hides my memory: there will always be a trace of one in the other.

It was no longer enough to step on the ground and drag the day along, to hang it at the end of a street fading into dusk in the middle of a city where nothing ever seemed to happen, because so little ever came back.

They can’t find their voice and cry softly, while I scream for those who do not scream. I cry for those who cry.

The traffic code of the streets, a date of birth, my years of schooling, the career they say I chose, the periodic table and its elements.

I keep thinking: maybe I’m addicted  to the raw version  the way people are addicted  to behind-the-scenes footage,  the way a timeline loves a disaster  as long as it’s formatted. 

Sometimes I feel I must express myself and then whatever needs to be expressed falls from my mouth like ash or like scales and when those scales harden everything seems made of green light; I suppose color can erase uncertainty, anyway now everything is made of green light.

In the ebb and flow of time, I choose to be, I choose to exist without looking back. What lies beyond?