The boomerang that disarms my heart would be the painting that will bear our name, the way that my tears never fall in so much desire would be the ink of the letter that I will seal without name or address. I’ll tell the phrases that I learned in your honour as the son of a bitch that you are, that you have turned me into a Pavlov of your breath. 

Because the way you are silent with dark eyes is like the applause of the tragedy that they will dedicate to us in the years without memory. Since we would be that eternal silence, that sidelong glance, that turning of leaf, that passing of hair and that minute of funeral that has no description.

Because we are and will be that fucking return that leaves everyone with the dagger to the throat, and we are and will be the best-wasted play given to charity to learn how not to love.

TA.

The bad vibe nobody takes it from me, like a pufferfish I carry poison for me and murder for all, because it's a sentence, but this concern without hours and time that doesn’t have a stopwatch is mine. Because it only knows how to follow me like a shadow with a needle, and I would like to have a way to transcript everything that it doesn’t tell. But for that, I should be able to sit and drink tea with my insanity, and for that time I have, however, courage dodges me and well, the bad vibe stays 

stays

stays

waiting behind the scenes for the misfortune to be as delicious as it whispers to me. 

TA.

Oh, sweet Mercy, why don’t you come for me that I have such shame in the open air, that your kiss would be benevolence. Because I’m not of those that have love, but of those that are beggars and pitiful with it, and I am of those that call and give opportunities that turn them into a rock in their shoe. 

And not even I would love me if I were a reflection, because Mercy I beg you to your holy life, that you give me the salvation of being able to play the card of amnesia with every time I excused a lousy action with holes for fabric. 

And it’s that I am, I am, I am all that I prohibited myself to be in my youth, and now I’m pitiful, now euthanasia should give me its tears and sadness give me its job. 

Because in truth, Mercy, I’m on my knees asking for clemency, because my Diosito I am a cheeky one with shameless that should stop throwing myself to the ground, but I was always so reckless for love that I gave up the one that should have been mine. 

TA.

I committed the sin when I pretended for the first time,

I made out the smile from my dead nerves, I made out the phrase from my hollow voice and the body from a severed heart. And I know that everything began there, with the pretend calm of a storm that ended up leaving me as a drifting raft.

Without moral support that brought the strength of the decisions made, and now I’m like this, with less me and more of nothing and all is an ironic laugh that no longer has the pain of an hour ago. 

Because it’s going too fast, and I’m drowning in what I have said so as not to bring chaos, and now I fear the iceberg of broken necks and exposed veins. Because this is how we end up in the slaughterhouse, and I know it’s my own fault for keeping my tongue between my prison of teeth. But I was never taught how to speak when what hurts is oneself. 

TA.

It's of those moments in which our fingers are moving as if it were a spider web that they don’t dare to touch. The situation is delicate because it's the minute in which we create the melody that will be heard on the day of our funeral.

It's on those soft moments in which your eyes are the colour of my first dream and my vocabulary breaks down in not finding a way to fill the minute in which our hearts are howling for it to happen. That the hands of earthquake tremors stop playing scared and start taking possession of the skin that they know is their destiny.

The second is fragile and fearsome, but it is now that we must risk everything and say: “This heartbeat I have heard before, this voice I have written it in another life and this moment is when I call you mine.”

TA.