The roof and the balcony

It is a rainy night and I want us to sit on your roof and on my balcony to pretend that it is a Sunday afternoon and we have all the stolen time of the world to tell each other what we do not understand.

The drops hit plastic, sidewalk and cars creating a sound that distracts everyone from wanting to hear your beautiful voice. And I have the trip that your tongue makes every time it wants to tell me how it is that you do not understand anything except that I am the calm to your tempest.

The wind is serene, like the caress of a dead person seeking his last goodbye in a welcome that feels so distant that it is already known. In that passing of time I remain silent and observe your profile while you take another drag on the third cigarette of the hour. And every drop, every cloud, every closed window knows that I am madly in love with this moment, even the corner of your eye knows it.

The legs no longer hurt, they have thunder and lightning travelling through them, warning that time has passed. But, well, the two of us continue with our fingers brushing our pulses and our lips always in the middle of Can I? and I want.

The storm is at its melancholic end, with the violin closing the orchestra and the mother taking all the children to sleep, it is the closing of another moment of ours.

However, we both lower our voices to the rhythm of the tears from heaven and continue talking about what we no longer remember knowing.

 

Ta.

Vow of death

I would die for not having met you, is what I tell you when you ask me to love you, 

I hold your hand with bruises when you demand actions that translate it 

I write it in my tears and blood when you need it in writing, 

I kiss your knuckles, 

eyelashes 

and 

your neck 

when you want me to adore you.

I kneel before you like a commoner vowing my loyalty, 

which is to say that I hope to die decades and aeons before the world forgets your name.

I prostrate myself before your shadows to proclaim that I hope that Alzheimer's strikes me if one day you leave me, to please deceive me with everyone I know as if they were you.

I throw myself at your legs to proclaim that these bones want to create flowers from our eyes.

It's that I prefer that the world burns tomorrow rather than exist in a universe that doesn't keep up with the beat of your veins.

 

Ta.

The contradiction

I am not attractive but I am beautiful, in the way that when the world is blind I untie myself from my problems. Thus dancing the distance with the same four-year-old sneakers. And I get lost in the corridors of my house humming a song that I have never heard.

Nor am I tempting, although, I am captivating in that my smile can make my eyes shine when tears are a tornado threat. My clothes are the neglect of my life, as they have the holes of the moths that I set free through the window but salute at the door.

I am not at all the paintings of my ancestors with their fixed postures and challenging eyes. I am of bloody knees and too clumsy to let wander alone. But you see, I have a deadly tongue that knows how to translate my thoughts into poems. I am not brilliant but I am an artist who wants to create a space for porcelain lungs.

It is okay that I’m not a goddess as long as I can be a mortal who can feel the cold of winter and the blood of summer. I am at peace with my life to continue in this existence of torments.

I am not a winner but I am a fighter and if you want to bet on the horse that does not compete but escapes here I’ll be contradicting.

 

Ta.

The diet

He tells me:

Why don't you eat well?

And I:

Just smile at him

I never knew how to eat well.

I knew how to eat soups for lunch and enter my stomach in the mirror.

I knew how to eat until I felt the vomit travelling to my lips.

I knew not to eat until the cigarette felt like oxygen starvation.

But I never knew how to eat without a challenge in mind.

He looks at me with concern in his eyes, a plate thrust on his fingers, a huff in his lungs as the excuses get shorter and shorter.

It is that I eat with my family as a famished knowing food for the first time as if I was  raised in war and abandoned on the road because sometimes the truth of my saying:

I'm fatter

With their reply:

Where?

I know it hurts me more than them and less to me than them, and the snake doesn't have much of a tail to bite in the madhouse of this equation.

They pass me the drink and they see my fingers adding the calories that my mind no longer has the strength to continue. 

They tell me about the bar but by miracles that cannot be explained I have money for poison but not for food. 

They tell me about balance in the rope of my danger but I wear long-sleeved shirts in summer to hide the cuts between the shame of the ribs that are visible in the fat.

And

I tell myself:

Why don't you go to the bathroom and finish the misery?

I answer:

Because that would be healthier than what I'm doing to myself.

Ta.

The closed eyes dance

I cross my arms behind my back, close my eyes and do this silly dance of 1, 2, 3, 3, 2, 1 and wait for you to follow me into the bane of music.

I want you to listen to the beat of your soul and close your eyes to let your muscles move independently.

My trick is to open my eyes when the laughter escapes you in the freedom of the blind. And I am amazed at the wind in your hair, the youth of your wrinkles, the dancing of your lungs, you are beautiful, a sin.

I grab your hands to crash our chests, to pirouette and laugh at the failure of our movements, we have closed eyes and accelerated heartbeats.

The music never ends, the blinds are closed and there are no kisses, there is no demand for bodies, no heated words. But there is passion, in my feet following yours, in accelerating your legs to keep my hips moving, there is the scent of your cologne and my perfume.

We are confused in the 1, 2, 3, 3, 2, 1 of insanity, but that does not matter as long as we keep our eyes closed and we are all that matters in our denial.

 

Ta.

Go gentle

Shh little boy don’t rush to grow up, I know you want to run away from every monster under the bed and create adventures of your fantasies

But shh little girl do not rush to take over the world, that roads are not golden and friends are not eternal.

Do not run where you are not trotting yet, do not walk where you are not yet crawling, go gently and treat the time with the respect that every cat deserves.

Go, easy little girl, go skipping the rope and keep that blindfold on your eyes for a few more seconds. 

Do not rush the damage of your soul, stay in the limbo of dreams as long as you can because the world has already savoured more than it should and you are a gem that everyone should protect.

So go slow little boy, go to sleep with tired eyes and play with whatever inventions you have to conquer, that life can wait.

Do not rush what the highways deceive, go on your own footstep and do not run over your desires and goals, stay tied to the kite and forget about the heights.

Shh little ones, don't get lost in the beauty of growing up and see the tranquillity in the simple existence.

 

Ta.

The fucking circle

Everything is a fucking repeat

the alarm sounds like a guillotine

the war is to feel the cold of the floor on your feet and not that of the sheets

you fool the world with a good disposition and closed eyes.

Everything is a broken mechanism

that is destroying the turning of your planet

and everything is shit

when you are the wounded wolf that makes circles of his blood

and creates snow angels from his ashes.

It's crap that you keep dragging while repeating

the same rooms

the same expressions

the same lies

it's unhappiness caught in a ball of fire

the attempt is cowardice that is not completed

and everything is a waste of what you don’t have.

 

Ta.

The dog

I take myself for a walk like a dog, I do not howl to the loneliness, more like I feed it with my dark circles. 

So I am left with closed eyelids but a mind that goes crazy and for that, I take myself out for a run every day at all hours to feel that fatigue that every night slips through my fingers.

I tried the trick of counting sheeps’ but I think that even they have their limits and my bones never find comfort in beds made of stones.

It is that I close my eyes and beg the angels to take the air from me like a leash:

“Please give me these six hours of fix where I can forget for a while what it feels like to be my angel.

Please give me the exhaustion of a hundred blocks and let me sleep tonight."

 

Ta.

Psychology 101

My psychology teacher told me that we are born knowing everything and that life is the passing of remembering. We are libraries that collect dust until people dance into our lives to bring their spring wind and awaken our hibernation.

But my dilemma was that I did not remember who I was since everyone who entered was not careful, they left these traces, messes and memories that redecorated what I once knew.

They were no longer my favourite colours and my most used words, now they were the echo of every ghost that once promised to stay by my side.

And yes, maybe and perhaps my teacher was right, the psychologist was right, we are born being the cradle of the universe, we are made of our ancestors and our children.

We are raised knowing the past and the future, our hands are wars, our legs are borders and our eyes are history, it is a probability that we know life itself. 

But I also know that my skin is your scent, my ears are all your sounds and my lips are your name.

 

Ta.