I woke up wanting to go to the movies, but I remembered there aren’t any left. I also woke up wanting to read a book, but they stopped printing them long ago. Today I woke up wanting to know the news, but I remembered everything always gets worse.

In a living Stations of the Cross, I walk. I carry the cross of my decisions: for choosing to live life like a Shakespearean play, for choosing to render it into poetry on this page.

I don’t like your name. I never have. But your name was carried by someone I always loved.

The kind of piercing memory that arrives when you doubt yourself. Like the feeling of leaving home and sensing that something is missing. Like forgetting the last item on the grocery list.

When you develop film, you have the negative of everything you shot, but the photograph is consummated only once you have the positive, whether in black and white or color. Therefore, the negative is like an abstraction: a guide toward the final image.

I think of you in empty cafes and broken lights, in melodies no one understands but we do.

Respirar, una mañana blanca e intentar y sospechar y volver a intentar después de que el filo de todas las injusticias que se acumulan en tu sonrisa me hayan abierto de par en par en paralelo…

Your cry rose above the silence of the graves. It searched, in the deepest recesses of souls, for the will surrendered to fear.

Never had I seen such a beautiful statue so forgotten: “Reading contemporary novels, woman of oxidized copper.”

I run up and downstairs, up and downstairs, turn my room upside down, and tidy it up again. It's spotless, but the cup I'd poured myself is cold again, and I resign myself to using the microwave.

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. 

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.

El mar, entonces, para mí existía solo en la imaginación. En casa teníamos un librero negro que apenas se sostenía sobre unas patitas que estaban siempre a punto de vencerse y que debíamos calzar con dobladillos de papel de revista. Le llamábamos “el librerito”. Sobre él, como en muchas casas de México, una concha de…

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.

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

My eyes drift away and my life seems insignificant, tiny. Barely an extract of infinity, a line from a book. Barely a sigh of Odin. Barely, barely, barely.

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

There’s a story I still don’t dare to write. It’s a time so dark that I had forgotten the feeling of constant loneliness on the road: how the cold seeped into my bones all the way to my heart, chilling desire, life, dreams.

Hatred is the best impulse I have for writing, not because everything I write when I’m angry is worthwhile, but because hatred seems to fan the flames of my creative process.

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.

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.

I wish I could write my poems only for you, that all my honey would taste of you and of calla lily notes. I wish I could write to you and love you, because that’s what I do best in this life. I wish I could give you the best of me along with a bouquet of calla lilies.

I fell in love with you, sitting beneath this birch tree, my legs draped over yours and our laughter echoing against the cobblestones.

Time drips, relentless. Irreparable, the hours slip away. Before, unconquerable, dust confiscates your body.

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.

That’s how it is: we neither need each other nor miss each other when we’re apart, but as long as we’re in the same room, we turn the world upside down with this attraction; just as the moon raises the tide.

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

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.