My best poem until now will be the one of tomorrow when I get up and put my feet on the ground to walk the day away

My best poem until two hours ago will be turning off the light to go to dream that one day I’ll stand in front of you, to read to you all that I am.

My best poem until the midnight of yesterday was the way I caught the ray of sunshine in my best friend’s smile and I made it immortal so as to never forget how much I loved her. 

My best poem until fifteen seconds ago was while I read about poets that were unknown to me but that awoke feelings of old friends that had no names. 

My best poem will be on Friday at 14.15 because the window of the kitchen will be open, my neighbour will be singing the music that I found annoying, the trucks will be competing for whom has the loudest horn and the world, for a few seconds, would look more alive

My best poem will be the one I’m writing at this minute, where I relate everything I’m wishing for, it will be about me laying in a bed of stars with my eyelids fighting against the fatigue and a light mind while I write the best poem I have written.

TA.

What is love if not the acceptance of imperfection?

Because of everything that you describe as wounds of shame I lick them as the pride of survival.

All that you murmur in the solitude of the night I keep it between the pages of my favourite book.

Because My Love, don’t you see that to love is not the encounter of equals but of unequals who need and understand each other. 

It’s the intertwining of hands that say: “you, I understand and you, I want” 

You can accuse me of all the capital sins that my arms will still catch you when you fall.

Because what is love if not the acceptance of the roller coaster that we are, the kiss on the wrinkles, the laugh of the tears and the sitting with you on the sidewalk while the silence overruns your voices. 

And it’s that I don’t need to demand your attention while your skin still remembers 

my heartbeat. 

Because love isn’t that I must say your name three times for your eyes to remember that I’m around, but the exhale and inhale of knowing that without speaking it, without mentioning it, you know that I’m always here.

TA.

In every silence, I sweep us further into oblivion

It isn’t with intention, never believe that I would delete you from my life with the desire to do so

Is that the repetition of life with each day that passes I let you get lost in the labyrinth of my memory 

And my dream can no longer be invoked in the hope that we will find ourselves in what my mind creates.

I find you bland and of passing clouds because with every minute of the words spent you become a lost photo

But like I say never, of the not in your life and of the impossible, believe that I would banish you because I want to.

Better know that it’s something of life, that love leaves and love returns but to love we never say goodbye forever. 

TA.

Why why why am I always waiting as a bride on her wedding night for you to love me, 

why am I always the kid who waits for you to cover him from the cold

why am I the one who waits under the rain, wishing for you to notice the tears

Why am I always waiting for someone, whoever, to notice me and say my name as a prayer and revive me. 

Why am I always waiting for someone to take me as a first option

why am I always with my eyes to the door and the tears on the lips 

why is it that even my shadow chooses the moon before me and

why why why why is it that every year I beg God for a crumb of someone that loves me enough to make me real. 

That someone tells me: “I missed you, I looked for you, I love you I love you I love you, don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me” and for me to be able to believe it, that I could cry and grab to not let go and

why why why why are there people like me who have never met. 

 

TA. 

I see a photo of you and you are grotesque, you are the come hither look that invites you to cross the street, you are the open legs that speaks of rendezvous that last longer than minutes, you are the lips bathed in blood that beg to wreck my skin, you are hair in ash that stays in my hand while I shout for you to stay. 

I see a photo of you and sadly you are not mine because we never reached the point of leaving our fingerprints in our crimes, we never got to tell our last names but your photos always remain, where I see your muscles and remember the heat of summer that was the scent of your neck. 

I see the half-smile and I have the cold of your lips so distant from my eyes that they are a star, I see your body and I remember that nothing could hold your soul. 

And yes, I see your photo as if it was a sin, as if I was 13 and I was learning to know myself, I look and I look and I look and I look as if you were a wanted poster. 

Because I seek, I seek to remember your nails that left red lines on my hands, I seek to see the eyelashes that were wishes in the air of a balcony, I seek the cold nose that you hid in a scarf that wasn’t yours, nor mine, nor anyone's, I look for your eyes, that until this day are the colour in which I dream, every time that your photo isn’t enough to miss you. 

TA.

I love the blood on your lips and I mix it on my skin because my love I can be sweeter than caramel in summer but there is wickedness in me that doesn’t give oxygen to your lungs. 

Because I adore the way that you look at me with desire every time I take a step back while calling out your name and the truth is that I could be the petals that fall around you while you declare to love me until the end of our days. 

However, I am more of bites on the neck and jealousy that leaves wounds on the back, because it pleases me seeing you curse for the way I run every time you tell me that you lovelovelove me. 

But we both know that that word is too small for when I pronounce that you are mineminemine and that my identity is your spy because your shadow is my eyes. 

And my way of love is that they would find my fingerprints in your death if you ever think about taking another path. 

As I am of the depressive maniacs that once their heartbeats it doesn’t leave freedom as an option to the love that leaves me longing for a green light with all the cars while I kiss the life out of your soul.

TA.

It’s the damn rain that makes me think of your kitchen window, the one that had cigarette smoke for air and that if you opened it you could hear more the sound of your laughter than that of this awakened city in ruins. 

I think of the window that had all the blue tones that ever existed, that it was summer but you had a sweater and I was thirsty for a warm drink.

I know that we weren’t more than nothing and less than everything, that the way you spoke sounded like a language that I hadn’t learned and everything that was going on was a movie that my eyes would dream of again. 

And I know that this is the rain that never fell that day, the one that reminds me of your lips absorbing nicotine while you challenged me with your smile to tell you the love that even you didn’t know, and it's that I know that we stood by that window with our hands brushing and our feet pointing at us. 

And we could have been magnificently terrible if we hadn’t waited for the pouring rain that would never come. 

And I know that this damned storm night leaves me wondering if maybe this was our rain.

TA.

In the bathroom, I observe my reflection and I see the freckles that only certain rays of the sun can catch, I see my hair that always dances between glitter and carelessness, I see death in the brown of my eyes and I wait for the stretch of my lips until my mind remembers how to fake life.

I press my nails against the raw flesh of my hips and I smile until my veins burn, I smile until my knees tremble under the weight of so much ignorance. 

I remain like a statue in front of the mirror, in a challenge of gazes, using different masks for the lips to make their trick, so the freckles form a bridge of the sadness buried in my cheekbones and so I can see the stars in my eyes. 

The teeth are bathed in blood, the lungs are breaking in the control of my breath but still, I persist, I still push every corner of my lips to their meeting point. 

Hoping that my soul catches the happiness that I can no longer call my own.

TA.

It doesn't hurt to be alone,

it kills me to have no one, time crawls through my shadow and the pre-made phrases are more like a sentence than a help.

It's looking both ways before crossing and cars with buses and motorcycles and bicycles come diagonally but not one hits you. And it doesn't hurt to be alone, because I was born alone, I was raised alone, I was kept alone, and I and I know each other well.

I am my favourite smile of the sunrises, my favourite joke of the rainy days, my chosen romance of moonless nights, and my favourite anguish on the days without sound. 

And no, it doesn't hurt me that there isn't anyone for me, that the world turns in every step I take and the people avoid my gaze because they fear that my eyes will make that connection that keeps us bound to this piece of earth, and I no longer have any supplications to give because I’m getting used to it.

I’m turning into the colour of my wall and no longer asking, I’m letting my voice be the only thing that motivates me and my loneliness be the only thing that protects me. 

Because it doesn't hurt me to be just me, so maybe if I stop waiting and hoping for someone to notice me and pick me, my heart will stop crying every night because nobody loves us like we do. 

TA.

There are those Cordoba streets that I can no longer look at

my sight always skip buildings when my hearts hears your voice in the clouds

it leaves me a heartbeat away from a panic attack and My Love you were supposed to be a distraction

but in a cockroach way you buried yourself in the corners of my skin. 

So I avoid everything that has your mark and thus I become a beggar 

of these spent bubble gum flavored words because I can't say your name

without feeling 

every lick

every touch

and 

every breathe

in which your smile has enchanted me.

So I avoid everythings that comes with Cordoba 

because

I can no longer hold my breath every time your scent takes flight,

I can no longer cross out every street in which you have kissed me,

nor can I cut my ear to prove my love. 

And that's why I no longer call anything by the name we met. 

TA.

AND!

I say come to the circus known as Argentina

Where we are all unimpeachable

Everyone has the vaccine except those who are using their bodies to protect the defenceless.

I say come to know the country where the predecessor is always blamed but never the voters and it is always said as an echo of the anthem that the past is what buries us but it is never our actions.

Know the land where everything is hands-free, there is no such thing as justice when a woman's blood runs like sewer water, the land gained is what anyone occupies and riots are an everyday whim.

It is a free circus, we are of easy entry, we are that the joke it's no longer said behind our backs because we no longer have a face to protect and I would like to love what gave shape to the red lands.

But we are the silver circus where everything is a plague and the final act is to wait in which leader the guillotine will fall.

It is cake for everyone seeking poison in the game of Russian roulette and no one is number one except the rats who are using our flag to propel their gateway canoes.

Come, please, come see how we mourn the country that is flooded in simple clown shame.

TA.

We were in a cemetery, which obviously was a street in La Boca. It was summer that was spring and it was our last year that was our second to last and we were 20 but we believed ourselves of 17 and we were all the contradictions that begin this writing. 

Because we made promises that our tearful eyes were never going to fulfil, since you were too cowardly where I was true and I was too cold where you were shelter. 

And it doesn’t matter where we were, but it does matter that the city was quiet because it was a weekday, it was afternoon and you exposed yourself before me as if I was doing your autopsy. And you revealed to me that everything you are was a cause of abandonment and betrayal, and I only knew of holding your hand and promising you that in my youth that my dagger would never be in your back. 

Because you were silver and gold in what made my life, you weren’t passionate love but you did keep the flame burning, and you wanted intertwined hands where I expected hugs, we were a contradiction that no one spoke of as they prefered to romanticize us.

And it was that we were in a cemetery when I was left with loose arms and told you who I was without deception, with a broken voice and tired eyes. I left myself before you as a believer at the altar, and you? You just spoke of someone else while you stabbed your dagger in my back. 

TA. 

I refuse as a professional to acknowledge the defeat that this silence is, 

I protect the flame-like the last human believing that help is on its way and I am left shivering in the cold of the lost faith that there is still a tomorrow. 

Because I know that if I act, that if I react, Roma burns today, and I don’t believe that you could survive it, that you could accept that I am the cold that you flee from every winter, that my abandonment is more lethal than the pain that I speak of, that I deny not only because of a kindness that protects me but because I know how to hurt with this feeling.

So, I stay with the dead tea in my hands, believing that soon there will be someone that remembers my name, that before I have to report myself as missing someone will remember my existence, I must maintain the faith that while little by little I’m slipping through the cracks there’s still an S.O.S happening where my sight doesn’t reach.

Because Jesus and Judas, if I accept that this is the extension of the time of a dead man, this empire will crumble to the tune of my lyre.

TA.

Oh, Holy God

That takes care of us

Today I get on my knees

To pray as in a death row

To give me the indifference to this love that has brought me so much torture 

I beg for your understanding,

as this relationship has made me a fraud and a failure. 

It has turned me into a clown that doesn’t know how to hide its grief.

So hear this prayer that implores in its knees and eyes to the sky to please, for all the good that is left in this wicked world, to release me of this bastard and give me the opportunity to live without dragging the cross of pain that is to have ever chosen him.

TA.

I dream of love in the form of liberty, in that I will be able to lay my head on their shoulder and dream my life away. 

I will be able to close my eyes and breathe the scent that is our city and universe, that life with its transit can go it’s merry way that I will keep smiling while they speak slowly and light about the story that is unfamiliar but entertaining. 

I have it in my mind with our fingers being knots that connect to the promise of our heart and I would be able to move my head to kiss softly their neck and leave the tattoo of my wish for them. 

I have it in the way that I would be able to laugh without caution and with the weight of their gaze in my happiness and it's that a world could be happening around us but we would only be the witness of our moment. 

It’s that their leg may clash with mine when I inhale, he exhales, that it can be summer but my body wants to be the copy of theirs, seeking to defy Zeus, wishing to go back to the original human. 

I see love as being able to finally close my eyes and be with you. 

Ta.

it's my best friend and enemy it's all that I would be looking for in a relationship that knew of duration Its my best-known wound, it's the one I talk about when I tell you that it tastes like water The one you dismiss as a day of yesterday And it’s all that you need to know about me to start the tango and its only kindness what I said with dead eyes that talk about the romance in roofs with rain and forgotten clothes because it's all that I don’t know how to say when we are left in the silence we never talk about. Ta.

The selfishness that runs through my blood seeks your gaze because all the poetry that makes me stand straight and show you my feathers are born there.

My mind that wishes to sleep and not exist in the cotton days that it goes mad with the power to write wicked things about the way that your voice released words that had never been heard before in my world. 

is that while the earth rotated around existing and knowing, mine did it through writing and finding. 

So the selfishness that is exhaled and inhaled from my scent doesn’t let go of your memory because it's midnight and its dawn and it’s yesterday and today and never, but something needs to be written 

It could be whatever, and you, like a prisoner of my laments, are always near to quench the thirst that needs a bit more ink. 

And like that, perhaps, with luck I get to rest these wrecked bones. 

Ta.

Let’s play it safe

Let’s brush the papers as we run through the hallways

May our names be the invention of all the forgotten cultures,

and that our kisses be all the 29 of the second month of the last odd year.

Let everyone introduce us again and again and again and again and again

‘Cause, no one ever remembers how out of the corner of their eye,

while everyone shouts happiness

and the drink slides through your fingers

my stare screams what you can’t translate between two professional dancers.

Let’s play it hard

That the only thing we hear be the sound of the ocean while we run to the nature

May my fingers have the ink of your writings

and that everyone tells you stories about the friend of your cousin of the boyfriend that you never heard before,

but that has the only familiar taste that ever mattered to you

And

when the world is saying the same lost echo, may your fingers be entangled in my hair while you whisper to me to play a game that has no end. 

Ta.