Skyline.

There are skylines too high for our view.

Too bright for the gods to look down,

And catch a glimpse of me or you.

We wander through our city with open hearts.

Even wider dreams.

But the burning stars no longer guide us through the nights.

Our spirits freeze.

We walk through rivers of questions,

As endless as the sea.

As loud as this city.

And maybe,

Just as deep.

There is a certain magix in the way we all come and go.

In the lights that shine in the highest windows.

The stories they climb.

The stories they hold.

I.

 My words dress up for you 

My heart wraps around yours

The rest, a mere quest through the trivial elements that make up our existence. 

The off chance of finding your smile in the crowd. 

Sharing laughs on your couch. 

Holding hands in the summer heat. 

Then refusing to let go. 

And while it seems hard to hold on. 

How could we let go? 

II. 

You joke. 

I laugh. 

And the laughs blend this day into the next. 

Where I joke.

You laugh. 

And we do not know for sure how many days have passed

But we have navigated through the stormy seas of all our lives.

Living on in your crooked bone.

In my patchwork scar.

And we have danced so hard,

That the nights are gone. 

A second time around. 

But you will joke. 

And I will laugh. 

Time is really nothing more.

III. 

I wrote about your smile 

You gave me plenty more

I wrote about our days

And they melted into memories, 

They melted into pasts.

I lavished in our summer

Dreamt of fall in your arms

But I have in these pasts

Only your endless summer

Only our countless jokes.

This remains.

If at least for today.

IV.

I became a lit candle

Ignited by the passion in your flame

I studied the lines along your eyes

The nights behind them

The stories they hold

What stories will they tell of me?

Will they quiver when they hear my name?

Will they remember my name?

V.

There was a tiny stream behind the library you took me to. 

This was the first memory in which I actively remember thinking of you

Your smile keeping my own on me

The excitement of knowing you were somewhere in this city

Thinking of me

Sitting in a tiny stream

With my tifanny blue fan

And a freshly read book in hand.

VI.

After thoughts do not often occur when you are sure

They appear as details you missed

As blurry elements that look yellow, not gold.

You were gone

Inevitably gone

I was alone in the backyard of a library

A beautiful library

In a beautiful neighborhood

But you were not there

And we never came back as I pictured we would

To poke our feet in that stream, together.

VII.

The first piece I wrote for you

Was the first time I wanted you to know I was thinking of you

That your inspiration was grand

That your voice was oh so strong

Touching me from afar

Touching me from wherever you go

While I sit and read about lovers who remind me of you

Without loosing sight of the lover in me.

VIII.

There may be elements I do not remember

Entire days that were erased 

There are others, that extend themselves over decades of your lips on my lips.

Your thighs beneath my thighs

And my feet hanging helplessly while we become a single, endless kiss

IX.

The more I think of our time, the easier it is to become enchanted all over.

As I feel my head in your neck, my arms on your chest.

I grow old in your bed

I become a version of the poets I have read

Eagerly fighting to become more than a women with her head in your neck

To become a poem

To turn your arms into words stronger than stone

Softer than the embrace in which we slumber

I think of our time as a page to discover 

In a book I have read over and over.

X.

When I think of a book I can smell it

I can fell its weight, acknowledge its age.

More than a story, I can place a bookmark in the time of my life when I touched its pages

When we became friends.

Looking back I know the moment in which you and I became friends.

When we became drunk on the stories we blurted back and forth

This was long after I cried in a BBQ joint

Long after I jumped on a flight back to you.

We became friends long after I blurted stupidly that I love you.

Then stupidly admited I loved the days with you

Not you.

I touched your pages and you touched mine.

A bookmark, the only bookmark worth the time.

Story teller.

Inhabit me. 

Like the cold to a winters night. 

Like the cold to the desert. 

Inhabit me with all of your might, 

Cursory, devoted

As if witnessing a miracle.

Inhabit me. 

And then, maybe

Devour me

From the most visceral stance, to the highest ethereal plane

Take a second to contemplate my body made flesh

My mouth, aliment.

Inhabit me. 

For it is wiser to live under one´s own roof

Of the body.

Inhabit me from the door to the bed

Come dawn, no one else will know how to inhabit me.

Inhabit me. 
Or cry out naked verses.

Inhabit me red
With tales of children that never made it to old age

Inhabit me sick

Begging the Agnus Dei not to die for the sins of others

As there are only a few honest men left

Better to live on for them.

Inhabit me. 

Inhabit my fears

Devour them through the night, 

Spew them back as dreams

And then,

Inhabit me 

Purged of sin

Free of fears

Like a princess tale

Made to the image of desire. 

Inhabit me dirty

Slumped over by nights that were no more than dreams

That do not travel according to time

Time that is never lineal

That deviates upon every tiny memory

Inhabit me. 

From this, that is little more than a dream

That is my memory

Speaking to those who live on in these tales

Inhabit me verse

For I am nothing more than a story teller

Who speaks within dreams 

To open-eyed men. 

Inhabit me clean,

Embraced with a single kiss

Inhabit me without the fear of an original sin.

Rakis

There was a melancholic feeling in the air from the moment I opened my eyes

Today, the sky denied us the bliss of having the sun seeping deep within our skin

Or caressing our faces as if an ending, as if a goodbye.

Or having your sweat trail down my neck

And having the laughs evaporate with the same grace in which they appeared

Instead, they linger.

And I do not know how I could talk about a dune without your sun

About laughs without hearing yours

The first night still hangs from my neck

Close to my heart, like your scar

And the second

And the third 

With white whine and your voice

And the fourth 

And the fifth

Until we were finally forced to say goodbye.

The last goodnight hangs there

like breakfast at six

There are goodbyes that must be recounted with ones eyes shut

That are unable to be touched again 

There are others, that are told with a special light

That move entire deserts and places them at the banks of an endless river

It is necessary to sit and enjoy the melancholy behind a goodbye. 

Of the strenuous satisfaction behind knowing that after all,

amidst it all

We have the enormous bliss of a hello

of a goodbye

Of the eternal present between them both.

How easily the days have become ours.

En alguna ciudad

 Hubo un aire melancólico desde que abrí los ojos. 

Hoy, el cielo nos negó la dicha de sentir el sol hasta lo profundo de la piel

De que nos acariciara el rostro como fin y despedida.

De que bailara tu sudor sobre mi cuello 

Y que las risas se evaporaran con la gracia con la que llegaron 

Pero no, ¨they linger¨

Y no sé cómo podría hablar de una duna sin pensar en tu sol

De risas sin escuchar la tuya

Me quedo con la primera noche colgada cerquita del corazón

Y la segunda,

Y la tercera

Con vino blanco y tu voz

Y la cuarta 

Y la quinta

Hasta que hubo, por fin, que decir adios

Me quedo con el último buenas noches

El desayuno a las seis

Hay despedidas que se cuentan con los ojos cerrados

Que no se pueden volver a tocar

Hay otras, que se cuentan con un brillo especial

Que mueven desiertos enteros y los sitúa a la orilla de un río magistral

Hace falta sentarse a disfrutar de lo melancólico de un adiós. 

De la ardua satisfacción de saber que entre tanto, entre todo

Se tuvo la dicha de un hola

de un adios

Del eterno presente entre estos dos.

Con qué facilidad los días se hicieron nuestros.

Te quiero cielo.

Quiero darte lo que se guardó entre los pliegues de mi espalda

Lo que dejaste ahí olvidado, desde el primer día. 

Quisiera que sintieras lo profundo que se posa el sol sobre mi rostro.

Que entendieras que cuando digo cielo, es por que te quiero cielo. 

Que no hay otro modo de alcanzar el vuelo.

Que no sea por cielo.

Y que tú, 

Cielo

Eres la aurora.

Y yo el canto. 

Y aquí

Entre suaves tonos 

Entrego el alardeo de mis palabras 

A ti,

Cielo.

Luz de gris melancolía

De ver al mundo hecho

Sin saber de qué. 

Pero completo.

Con dos pies

Dos manos.

Te traigo pedazos de ideas muy mías

De ideas de un cielo

Ideas de ti

Cielo. 

Y me convierto en la voz

Tú

El verbo. 

Quisiera que sintieras mis sueños entre las sábanas

Que entendieras lo que sueño cuando sueño, 

Cielo.

Cuando sueño cielo. 

Que hay infinitos soles

Hechos risas

Tuyas

Mías.

Y sigues siendo dulce melancolía.

La miel que escurre de mis letras

Que salen tras nombrarte

Que salen al buscarte,

Cielo.

Entre todos los hoys.

 Hoy hay tiempo de sentarse a beberse un café. 

Que nunca sirven tan caliente como se quiere... 

O que se enfría demasiado pronto, 

Quizá, el tiempo es

Nuevamente 

El problema. 

Pasa, que mis ojos, 

hoy no se logran llenar de lágrimas

Pasa, que hoy,

Entre todos los hoys

Me he comido un mousse sin culpa

Me he sentado sola

Y he creído en la compañía de mi pluma

En el refugio de mis palabras 

Externadas entre puntos y comas

Dándole

Como siempre 

Su lugar y su importancia al compás del tiempo. 

Hay en mí, tantos anhelos

Corren por cada vaiven de mi cintura

Anidando entre los muslos que se alimentan de la culpa de la sublime experiencia del cacao.

Quien conoce mis secretos

Sabe la locura que es hablar del cacao desde la culpa

Hoy me sentí llena, plena

Y pude reconocer que hace meses solo me llenaba de culpa-ajena.

Hoy hay tiempo de sentarse a beberse un café.

De pedir un mousse de chocolate

Reconocer el pesar y dirigir el corazón hacia otra dirección.

Hoy.