and their laughter? am I a memory? or… not even that? will they remember me, love as I do? a chip, two little boards snapping together and the steam of insomnia, or love that brings insomnia? to know!
will I be a memory? here, not there euphemism of a lover paradigm or syntagm with only one death
cold bed, lost kisses kisses, kisses… small hands, my hands smiles, warmth, skin against skin her breath of waves like oxygen warming me, feeding me
long time, short time do you heal little? or do I want too much?
betrayals, looks acid of my eyes acid for my eyes acid with remains
I have been talking in my dreams I have been talking, laughing and crying I know the sadness of an empty bed I know what is lost of my life
Don’t tell me that crying causes you shame. If crying is always relief for a soul that is full of soft or bittersweet martyrdoms.
Crying is the least of it, it has always been so: for the bad the good weep, as I weep for you. Well!, not quite like that, or? more or less… The point is that I cry, I beg and I reply.
I am your shadow, who for centuries past has pleaded for your love. Could that be why I cry? Or is it a man’s pride in me not to have as a bud those lips that do not kiss, but far away!, how they weigh!?
On to something else: that the time to love has arrived. My time, her time, our time. Time is always different, or everything is according to time.
We become reproaches… We become memories.
In the end, or always, we become memories.