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.