I use to dream about you. I use to wish that i’d see you. Bump into you. Anywhere. Everywhere. I fantasised about you and I longed for you with an ache that made its way down and into my bones. Did you ever know? We never said anything out loud. Never said the way we felt, so maybe you did. I did eventually find a way to soothe the ache you left in my bones so if you never felt anything back don’t worry. I can walk down busy city streets without searching for your blue eyes. I can drink my coffee with way too much added milk with out it reminding me of the colour of your skin. The one thing i can’t do Is breath, but I guess that was the price I had to pay to shut down a piece of my soul. I still yearn for you. I still miss you and I will always love you
Sweet kisses in the summer, sun shining brighter and higher.
Around the trees we sang and danced and thought about our dreams. Holding hands, running through fields, smells and fragrances and sights and adventures. All of these things I experienced with you right into the chilly red fall. Swirling leaves and crunching boots, touching hands with crisp bitter winds. Bundled scarfs and warm bonfires with your favourite little marshmallows. Late night talks about separate schools, a little bit less kissing, a lot less faking. Winter filled with snowflakes and fun, catching them on our warm, hot tongues. No more passion, just beauty and crystals, hats and mitts and blankets and glances. I touched your hand and held your gaze and then spring arrived. Love and life relinquished, new and strong and fresh and bright. You looked away and saw her there, alight and golden and beautifully graceful. Walking through floating cherry blossoms, in the rain I saw you leave. April showers brought May flowers and I began all over again. This time with him.
No es nada de tu cuerpo
ni tu piel, ni tus ojos, ni tu vientre,
ni ese lugar secreto que los dos conocemos,
fosa de nuestra muerte, final de nuestro entierro.
No es tu boca -tu boca
que es igual que tu sexo-,
ni la reunión exacta de tus pechos,
ni tu espalda dulcísima y suave,
ni tu ombligo en que bebo.
Ni son tus muslos duros como el día,
ni tus rodillas de marfil al fuego,
ni tus pies diminutos y sangrantes,
ni tu olor, ni tu pelo.
No es tu mirada -¿qué es una mirada?-
triste luz descarriada, paz sin dueño,
ni el álbum de tu oído, ni tus voces,
ni las ojeras que te deja el sueño.
Ni es tu lengua de víbora tampoco,
flecha de avispas en el aire ciego,
ni la humedad caliente de tu asfixia
que sostiene tu beso.
No es nada de tu cuerpo,
ni una brizna, ni un pétalo,
ni una gota, ni un grano, ni un momento.
Es sólo este lugar donde estuviste,
estos mis brazos tercos.