The three times

Your fingers were cold, your voice was shaking, and the cars were honking to get us to move. Everything was too much and everything was summed up in your red eyes that looked at me and promised never to give me the abandonment that my name had.

That would be the middle.

My lips were purple because the nails had been covered in band-aids and the cigarettes had been spent on my lungs. You were ahead, by my side and behind, everything you thought you knew was being destroyed before your eyes.

Everything you had denied had turned into a nightmare that you couldn’t wake up from, everything was an exposed nerve and you wanted to confess to me.

But, between the city of the dead and the summer trees, I grabbed you in my arms and told you that you could flee to me.

That would be the beginning.

We were sitting, probably somewhere in Buenos Aires, it was cold but you were without a jacket and I was in shorts, the world was quiet.

The end of the world was what that year was called, my heart was broken, someone had died, someone had left, something harmful you had said.

You were with sewn lips, you did not say what your throat demanded that you explained, you stayed on my side with the nerve of not knowing what to do. My eyes were wet, my lungs were shaking, my mind screamed in anguish but not a single tear fell.

You were still quiet, there were no cars, no people, no life, we were two strangers without having to explain.

That would be the end.

Ta.