Haze, mist, smoke.

I like being drunk

I am by self this time.

I hide myself in no memories

this time in dying

in some bad drawn dyes.

I am and I was today, 

and I was alone looking for someone to find me and define me, because I was border-less.

I leaked myself in my house as a dense haze and space of somethingness.

I covered it all, but then it became a cage in which each step I take I would find myself poking around.

Is this the way to live?

Poking and saying:

"what is expected from the first expected thing of us?"

And then someone gazing around, again, around my home,

would make me regain myself, but I would still be a border-less one.

She doesn't dance

Oh!

How well she dances,
even thought she does not.

When she dances, how sincere is she?

She own herself,
she silently fights,
as if she would unexpectedly fade off.

Like fire wavering,
as candles mad at a slight breeze.

How timid and less she knows,
about what she subtly says.

When she dances,
I know more about her.

Again.

How easy I knew;

How easy, a way to know that would end what it is comfortable.

Imagine.

The moment I set eyes on her how would have ended.

The moment you went to your dream, to sleep. 

As you were to sleep I thought I was in a dream.

But I wasn't. 

I was never asleep.

Drunk.

So I spilled again the liquor,

as I spilled the words to you,

I drank it, as I did with these,

Feelings.

I overflowed with them,

became drunk again as my head couldn't take.

Oh, I did it again. I told you what I don't want to face.

Sober.

Words that we couldn't say

We couldn't say them,
so now we just pray them ,
words that we couldn't say.

The lids I didn't know how to close,
the stain I didn't know how to take off,
the message I didn't know how to deliver.

The silent fight,
the unknown vertigo,
the inadverted lies,
where the truth lied.

Even when it was inexperienced I had one,
I had one that had took care of,
I couldn't picture but myself
like a child lost enough.

And I only thought of myself.

The glass that broke silently,
the room that was kept as a mess,
the pet that was left alone.

Scratching it now, trying to hide,
on sand-like walls,
what was left in the floor.
My nails seems to disappear in such rough walls.

The third person images,
the floor,
the wall,
the strugle,
me pulling.

Me seeing in myself what I never wanted to become.

Some day we'll make it right, appart.

I'm sorry.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdHHIVMJ_VQ

La duda de mi tercera madre.

Jamás pertenecí a esas escenas,

Nosotros crecíamos en un mundo inimaginario y abierto, en ese tiempo una caja de arena.

Ese déa ella hacía las galletas.

I las cosas y las ideas, le podríamos repetir, necesitar y representar en granos de arena...

Pero ella la hacía realidad.

Probé las galletas que preparó con dulce de guayaba como un conocimiento extranjero más que como algo típico ó conocido.

Y lo reconocí más como placenta que como algo cognocible...

Era sentimiento, familia, era afable.

...

Y ahora cuando ella duda... mi mundo y ser duda.

Qué fácil tiembla mi mundo...

Qué fácil no puedo explicarle ni arreglarle.

Arreglémosle y arreglémosle en cierto ser inarrepentible.

Porque este nunca se inmuta.

Te debo un café.

El otro día, mientras enfriaba el café echándolo de un pocillo a otro.

Bueno, eso es una mentira, sabes bien como vivo, el café va de un vaso de icopor, de poliestireno, a otro de un tipo plástico que no me atrevo a clasificar, pero que a alivio de mi lector y mío no le pasa nada con el café.

Así, enfriando y revolviendo los tres sobres de azúcar que le eché al café, con ese vapor tan abrigante del café en mañanas friolentas de esta voluble ciudad, me acordé de ti.

Tres sobres de azúcar, el sitio es cómodo, pero el café es pésimo.

Querida amiga, quiero invitarte un café, uno bueno, uno caliente, uno que prometo enfriar, no a la temperatura donde ya no tiene sentido tomarlo, sino una en el cual tu boca no sea lastimada por el exceso de calor, uno donde el acto de enfriar sea lo tangible de mi cariño contigo.

As dust in a forgotten room.

As the days keep going, the longing for you keeps growing.

I wonder how much, will it grow till I see you again;

Will I become a tower?, a light house?, an obelisk?,
or a tree, with many branches and lots of fruits to give you and to hold you with me,
in a quiet and peaceful time, my dear.

I look forward then, as I pray you to wait for the time for us to be.

In the blue, the early morning.

I still can remember how the end of your fingers, your short nails, figured a way in your own hands as scar, as a dissapointment in you... or in me.

I still can't leave the traces of those scars or memories, and I cling on them in me.
However as the ink make it's way on the papers those images find they own way on me.

Maybe you're better of this way.

Maybe I'm better on this way.

I hated

Ojalá mis manos se postraran ante deseos y respondieran a mi sentimientos cual garras
que deshojaran y dejaran en sorpresa los bajos pensamientos en que he quedado reducido mi reflejo
en esos espontáneos brillos de puentes en tu cerebro.

Ojalá pudiese lastimarles ó hacerme con ellos para hacer nudos y un lío digno de una venganza
lenta e indescanzable.

Ojala que el apego que tengo, pareciese y desvaneciese con la rapidez y la facilidad con la que empuja la brisa del mar a la arena.

Sin embargo impulsos se despedazan con la misma facilidad con la que deseo y siento.

Ojalá no olvidara tan pronto y el sin sabor se diera con tal presencia y tal desapego.