Imagino 

No me siento solo
aunque a veces te extraño. 

No a ti, Minerva despeinada
no a ti que me desprecias. 

Quizá extraño tu olor
el calor de tus piernas
la rapidez de tu aliento. 

No me siento solo
pero en mi mente te acompaño. 

Celebro tus victoria y tus vicios
por más que uno de ellos
sea no haberme querido. 

Y es que estoy bien, estoy vivo
¿Qué me importa el pasado contigo?

No me siento solo, al contrario
Sólo me siento e imagino. 

Que tú no estás sola ¿cómo podrías?
si tu piel alimenta a hordas por días 
si tu voz es paz y armonía. 

No me siento solo
pero no me molestaría 
que tú, allá en tu esquina
Quisieras hacerme compañía. 

Perder

Nos aterroriza ser un paria de este consumo constante.

Claro, nuestra mortalidad nos otorga ese privilegio.

El terror y el placer de perder el tiempo.

De ser inmortales no tendríamos prisa alguna,

Quizá, de ser inmortales no nos levantaríamos con el sol.

De ser inmortales no nos explicaríamos nada.

De ser inmortales, la existencia sería un delirio espantoso e insoportable.

De ser inmortales, buscaríamos la muerte.

WE THE QUIET ONES

Why is it so hard for us, the misfits,

the ones who don’t dare to talk?

The quiet ones lost in glances and exchanged silences.

I tell you this, may reality not fool you: It’s not our fault.

It’s this world’s, the bitter competition.

It doesn’t regard the weak, the tender-hearted,

the small voices that are kept quiet because they’re different.

The others. Them who can talk, who can dance and not look our way,

they lie to us. They say it’s us who don’t dare.

But communication seems so easy; 

yet truth is, it’s vain; banal. It barely scratches the surface.

We don’t need to meet other people to talk to them. Which would be easier,

But it becomes about image, who we seem to are, how happy we pretend to be.

But the right time comes; when that furtive “hello” arrives, and there’s no answer. 

We cannot lie to ourselves. Even if we barricade our emotions; 

our faces behind a screen, we are still that quiet kid in the corner who doesn’t dare to talk.

We’re judged, belittled. How creative we are. 

But the crushing reality is that we are still scared. 

We are in that sole performance, that will never repeat itself: we won’t get a second chance. 

Our reach for help.

Our scream, 

keeps to be unheard, 

unread, 

unanswered 

but what’s more painful it is 

seen.

No time for small talk. 

No time to care. 

No time to dare. 

It seems so precious, 

but so wasted.

We have no other choice but to yell. 

To give the world this anger, 

this solitude that became our fortress. 

And attack. 

Give it all in living colours, 

in sincere smiles, 

in art.

WITH A SMILE

The minimum. 

Shards of cynicism

we're born with. 

A cut is a lesion

we close our eyes

it doesn't seem big

but it hurts much more. 

Forty three cuts our body has

amongst thousands of little stings

our head denies it, 

but the body can't stop the blood. 

Funny and sad it will be, 

cynics the world call us

when we slice our neck 

and remain numb

 

I pressume lack of understanding

we may not know it

but our head is trying very hard

to go far and die with a smile. 

WHAT IF

What if if we fall in love?

We lose away all our senses

I come home after a long day and it gets better by the glimpse of your smile.

Who cares if by any chance I forget life

but I remember that Ice-Cream is your favourite dessert.

What is it to the world if you disappear for a while

when my lips caress your neck.

What if after tumbling round and round between a yes and a no (that nobody gives but ourselves) we take the leap and lean in for a kiss.

What if in shame I present my nude self to you and you clothe me with your touch and love.

What if I ditch my friends to see you smile and get lost in the summer of your eyes.

No problem will arise of adoring you day and night, body and soul. Loving you here, now and tomorrow.

No concern to the world if before leaving we ask ourselves if it’s a better decision to stay here forever.

No one will care when I start to get annoyed by your insistence on been in the same place.

No harm is done if I lie to you to keep you mildly happy.

What if we turn our trust into jealousy and desire nothing but hell to each other.

What if after years we get disgusted at the thought of being apart but cannot bear to be together.

It is nothing to society if you manipulate me with your tears while I cry to you with my indifference.

No good or bad will be done if you stop singing to me and I quit writing to you.

Not a soul will care if after a year our love turns into hatred and the sparkle in your eyes ceases to be the reason of my existence.

Earth will keep turning even if we violently exhume our most terrible fears by hurting each other.

My blood in your hands, your blood in mine. Teeth, words, knuckles, guns.

Life will continue to grow when you’ve destroyed my soul and I’ve diminished your personality.

It will happen without us. Life is perfection with your heart and mine in a same place or apart.

So, if no tragedy but the one we desire persists, why should stop our lives?

Why should you keep your voice from my head?

Why should I keep my touch from your hand?

The world won’t cease to exist.

If our love begins or never desists.

So this I must insist:

Let our love be and our hearts fall so hard

that the world would wish it could stop.

TENDER GOODBYES

With the come of Spring

also begin the ends

A constant elongation

a stretch of hands

a common mistake

that takes love for adoration

Try to win your attention

those wild seconds you lend me

through your letters, your fingers

and that voice by the shore.

All at one moment

seems so magical, so tragic
I only think one thought:

that the embrace should happen

in the face of the wildfire.

But it disappears and fades,

it leaves while I despair.

I try to open that window again

while I drink that sweet poison of yours.

I fall, I fall until I need you

Need not to see you go

but stay and share,

find an excuse, find a time

and find a place at last.

But no, as the dream came

the jump avoided

the unknown rested where it is

You leave with notice,

Instead of being a dream

what it has always been about

it is a friendly face, a disgrace

that leaves me cherishing

your tender goodbyes.