Querido,
Se aproxima una primera vez.
estoy cansada, mis párpados se cierran en contra de mi voluntad,
pero te escribo, porque me es urgente que me leas.

Se aproxima una primera vez y con la edad uno se da cuenta que estos momentos se vuelven más escasos, y con mayor separación entre sí.
De pequeña todo era nuevo, cada aroma, emoción, alimento,
Las primeras veces de la infancia se les recibe con naturalidad y con poca reflexión.

Se aproxima una primera vez y me siento eufórica de que suceda contigo.
La primera vez de la aventura, del vuelo, de nueva tierra.

Te quiero en todas tus etapas.

Te quiero pequeño,
chimuelo y travieso,
te quiero entre la ropa,
te quiero como se quiere a la primavera.
Pero te quiero más hoy.
A punto de embarcar en esta primera vez conmigo.

Te veo junto al amanecer.

Todo mi cariño,
tu amada.

Hace tiempo que no me enfrentaba con una pagina en blanco;
Con la valentía de mirar dentro del charco, en vez de chapotear en él.
Y ahora me pregunto
¿que hacer con una página seca,
y una sonrisa dorada?

Le has otorgado una nueva definición al cielo,
a las estrellas, a los atardeceres.
A todas esas cursilerias
que la gente pretenden conocer,
una vez al mes,
cuando la luna esta llena
y los corazones vacíos.

Resulta que todos quieren ser poetas.

Vivimos entre momentos,
intervalos de pasado y futuro.
el presente nunca llega,
y nunca se va.

Y por lo tanto, nos buscamos
en el viento,
el río,
la rana,
el mar.
Qué importa.
Todas estas cosas portan tu nombre,
una esencia esparcida,
un eco vibrante
que tumba y retumba
hasta llegar a mi.

Mientras miraba la montaña
me tomaste de la mano,
y sin darme cuenta
escribiste los versos más bellos sobre ella.

Así que andamos,
vagos, felices.
A paso lento.
mirada firme.
compás seguro.
paños al viento.

Te dejo un `Te Extraño´

“Te dejo un “Te Extraño”,
 uno que no pese, uno que te cobije 
y te recuerde que pienso en ti.
 Uno que no se compara en nada con el abrazo 
que traigo atorado en los brazos, 
o lo besos que se andan muriendo por ti. 
Pero es un “Te Extraño” 
lleno de mucha sinceridad, 
en esta noche fría, 
donde la brisa me llena y me vacía de ti.
 Te dejo un “Te extraño”
 que tal vez no sirva de mucho, 
pero ojala te consuele el alma.”

On letting go

Long after the rupture, I kept a photo of you in my wallet. I came to realize this about two months after, when as I was buying a pack of gum, or shampoo or maybe bananas. Something ordinary. I was simply going about my day, when suddenly your face unwillingly popped into my line of vision.

My heart fluttered and I hated myself for it.

I looked at the photo in disbelief. Small, monochromatic and threatening. Your eyes were piercing, and my left lobe did its job but too well. Remembering, unfortunately is much too easy. I did something, in that moment, that surprised me. I tucked the photo back into a corner of my wallet where it couldn't be easily seen, but would be kept close nonetheless. Like a token. As if it meant something, even though deep down, I knew better.

I did it anyway.

Long after the rupture, I kept a photo of you in my wallet. Days passed, and as you travelled by my side, things began to change. I learned to skate. I went to therapy. I played my clarinet after four years of neglect. I bought a different kind of toothpaste. I fell in love again.

I still caught a glimpse of your frozen face from time to time in the midst of interchanging bills for receipts, but everytime, my brain registered you differently, as if you were aging. As if the changes in me, were directly correlated to the changes in you.

Time heals all wounds. Even the ones you nurture.

I kept you in my wallet until your eyes became just eyes. No promise. No caress. Until your smile became a curve and not a secret. Until I could no longer hear your laugh. I kept a photo of you in my wallet until I stopped believing you would blink. Until I forgot about the wrinkles in your suit. Until the waves in your hair lost their salt. I kept a photo of you in my wallet until I stopped wishing on your eyelashes. Until you looked more like a stranger than a lover. More like a portrait than a friend. More like a memory, that was never mine to begin with.

And on the day, when I could no longer recognize your face, on the day when I struggled to remember your name, I took the photo, lovingly, between my index and thumb, opened my speeding car window, and let it go.

Don't
forget
the struggle.

To loves that could have been but never were

Hello Lover,

Soft glances over broken bottles
you're getting ready to leave
with the morning air
and I can't stop you
and I can't watch you.
and I can't hold you
back.
because you can't hold back
what isn't yours.
and you certainly were never mine.

sometimes I wonder
if I myself,
was ever mine.

But lover,
that misty morning
in December last year,
or decade,
when our lips brushed
and our bones gasped in wonder,
under the warmth of two hearts of stone,
that moment,
when the universe collapsed
and reformed
in the blink of your eyelids,
that moment,
is mine.

Like the countless others,
when the globe stopped revolving,
to admire
two cold beings
on fire.
All those moments,
that history books have forgotten about
all of them,
are mine.

My mother had taught me
in 2nd grade
that you can't hold on
to anything at all.
Because holding on is sad
it takes away
the ability to live,
and dream
and allow happiness
to enter.

Maybe that is why,
I've learnt to let go
more than to hold tight,
and sometimes,
when the wind asks me,
about the lovers I lost
and the loves I didn't hold close,
I laugh, but do not respond.

I can't tell the wind
or the howling voices
of the universe,
that I've made museums
of human beings
inside me,
colonies of the ways,
they've formed me
live in between my skin cells
and every time
a new person decides to leave
I make a home for them
in the vacant galaxies
of my lungs

So that every breath I ever take
from here on,
smells a lot like,
them,
the loves that could've been
but never were.

Mira

Recuerdas los días oscuros? Los días en los que incesantemente rompías tu propio corazón, una y otra vez? Recuerdas como tuviste que dejar la poesía a un lado durante un tiempo porque las metáforas se apropiaron de tu realidad? Cargabas un ladrillo en el pecho y costaba trabajo respirar. Hasta las catarinas eran capaces de generar en ti un aguacero y te carcomía algo desde tu centro. Los días en los que tus raíces se desprendieron y tu sangre hervia. La incineración duele, y el renacimiento también. Pero mírate ahora, con tus ojos deslumbrantes y tu sonrisa guerrera, y tu mente, mas fuerte que nunca. Mira como brillas, después de la tormenta. Mira como pulsas. Mira como flotas. Mira, mira, mírate.

Some nights I wonder
how much of me
you gave to her.

The hardest thing

One of the hardest things 
you will ever have to do, my dear 
is grieve the loss of a person 
who is still alive.

Life after Death

You left

and I died, 

but at least
now I realise
that there is indeed
life
after
death.

Wild horses

I'm a dreamer,

but it's hard to sleep when your head's not in it. 

I've been restless cause you disappeared and that's all that's missing. 

The Earth is loose under my shoes. 

There's an angel and he's shaped like you, and I thought I knew him.
There's a window and it's dark inside, but the light was in it. 

This can't be love if it hurts so much, 

I need to let go

I will survive and be the one who's stronger, 

I will not beg you to stay.
I will move on and you should know I mean it, 

wild horses run in me.

I remember how we danced so close, I would stand on your feet.

And the phone calls that would last all night, 

they were lifeboats to me.

Our fading scars just shooting stars,

they're here, 

then go.

Our human hearts forget how strong they are and they get lost along the way, 

hey it's not giving up, 

it's letting go,
and moving to a better place.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCP6sXi33JE&index=16&list=PLVvI_2e6BLlhIqVL4NLUajs9X9WszX7o2

Tormenta

Recuerdo aquella vez en la que prometimos
que la próxima vez que hubiera una tormenta,
haríamos el amor.

Anoche,
El cielo se derrumbaba,
y por primera vez,
no pensé en ti.

On joy and sorrow

"When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." 

Khalil Gibran

All bleeding must stop.

All bleeding must stop. Sometimes it does so at a cost. You lose the arm, remove the organ. You choose to live with the loss because at the end of the day you'll do whatever you can to stay alive. And sometimes by some miracle the bleeding stops. But sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it's still not enough.

ways to keep the doctor away.

eat apples. 

Lots of em.

Exercise. Go for a run, 

keep going until your knees break and even then,

don't you dare look back. 

Give. 

Give him everything you have,

and more, 

he will not know how to receive or better yet, 

reciprocate. This will guarantee his disappearance.

Art

Sometimes,
I make art to relieve the heaviness inside me.
To implode. To breathe easy.
Art is my ejaculation.

Kidney lovers

I've been thinking and have decided that 

the next time I let a man in, 

I´ll be sure to store him in my kidney. 

Or maybe my appendix. 

Somewhere less vital than a heart, 

per se. 

I will make a home for him in some part of me I can live without 

in case it ever has to be removed, donated, cut off, 

if for example, it becomes ill 

or if He decides to leave.

I want him to feel welcome, 

but to remind him that he is a guest. 

If he get´s too comfortable, 

he might try to move into my brain, 

or even worse, 

into my memories, 

poetry, 

buildings, 

background noise,
motor skills,

bloodstream, 

autonomic reflexes.

This is too big of a risk. 

Absence leaves a stain like red wine on a white carpet. 

You can purge over and over again 

but a shadow always remains. 

On certain occasions, 

the only choice left is amputation. 

So yes, as pragmatic as this sounds. 

the next time I let a man in, 

I´ll be sure to store him in my kidney. 

Or maybe my appendix. 

Somewhere less vital than a heart.

Left Clavicles

I stroked a different boy's clavicle today.
His left one, to be exact.
And that touch, minuscule as it would seem,
filled me with unimaginable grief.

Thieve

As a native Mexican, I am aware that the socio-political situation in in my country is complex, to say the least. Your guard, like the flag, must always be raised high. Lock your doors, seal your windows, chain your bikes. Tip the man holding a bucket so he "watches your vehicle", even though everyone knows that the tip simply reduces the risk of him keying it. Keep an eye on your bag, stay skeptical. If you want to survive, don't pay too much attention to the men lurking at the darkest corners of the bar, or to the ones who smile too widely in broad daylight. Stay away from the city's perimeter, and off the roads after 2:00am. When you cross under a bridge, make sure you never look up. Make eye contact, but not too much. Maybe that was my mistake. The eye contact, that is. I looked at you for too long. I let you in.

Mexico is an insecure country, but I never expected to come home and find that everything I knew had changed. That everything was gone. Love is the most sinister kind of robbery there is. The worst part of getting a thieve is that after they clean you out, you will never get yourself back.

How to succeed in heartbreak

How to succeed in heartbreak without really trying:

First, do nothing
Become one with your couch
eating whole stack of Oreos like leaning towers of feelings
Watch Jane Austen adaptation until your eyes become raisins.

Talk to yourself, talk to yourself in the mirror,
on public transportation, in the middle of the fountain at the plaza.
Because, there are things you never got to say
And you don’t have to swallow them.

Kiss as many people as you need to get the stamp of his lips off of your brain
Go to museums; realize other things have history too…
Play hide and go seek with your REM cycles
You’re not sure which is worse to wake up from
The nightmare about your sides splitting open
or the dreams about him holding your jaw like it meant something to him.

You might as well tape your eyelids to your forehead
Because at least you can lie to yourself while you are awake.

Stay up until 3:00, or 3:30, 4:00...
Brew tea with the bags under your eyes.

Write, write until you’ve used every metaphor in your library
You start using the same one over and over
Because there’s only so many ways to describe being destroyed.

But once you get there, that’s just the foundation
Next, gather up all of the chinks in your chain
And fasten them together
Make chain mails, and write that bitch into battle
Take his name, the one that still hurts to say
And use it as a war cry,
then, actually cry,
because there is nothing shameful about clearing your eyes.

Do not pick yourself up.
Do not be okay,
Because heartbreak is not about being okay,
It’s about remembering that you were okay before.
It is about saying fuck okay.
It is about taking all your broken pieces and building yourself a castle
Because I don’t care who you are
You’re a goddamn queen.
It’s about saying, fuck this poem.

No one succeed at heartbreak.

But one day, I’ll cry myself a fountain of youth
Let’s go back to beginning.

I’m tired of self-help tips and friendly pick me ups
I drink a bottle, and bottles and bottles,
pretending their mouths belong to someone else,
But I’m done feeling sorry for myself.

Because why apologize for loving until you burst?
My capacity to feel needs no pardon.
My heart needs no mending.
I’m not broken
I’m just a little more,
explosive.

Natural Disasters

Natural disasters; Inevitable phenomenons that, despite their justified existence, cause a universal sense of loss. They are unpreventable, and tend to be given a name. "Tsunami" is not enough. "Hurricane" is not enough. "Man" is not enough. 

I was natural, 

you were the disaster. 

I was the thunder, 

the downpour, 

the meadow,

the rising sun.

You were the spectator. 

The tourist. 

The wanderer, 

who took a photo, 

put it in your pocket,

and walked away. 

But I've come to learn

that the sunset does't loose it's spectacular glow, 

just because you stop looking. 

El Futuro

"Me enojaré amor mío,
sin que sea por ti,
y compraré bombones
pero no para ti,
me pararé en la esquina
a la que no vendrás,
y diré las palabras que se dicen
y comeré las cosas que se comen
y soñaré las cosas que se sueñan
y sé muy bien que no estarás,
ni aquí adentro, la cárcel
donde aún te retengo,
ni allí fuera, este río de calles
y de puentes." - El Futuro (Julio Cortázar)

Si tú me olvidas

Quiero que sepas
una cosa.

Tú sabes cómo es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otoño en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
todo me lleva a ti,
como si todo lo que existe,
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.

Ahora bien,
si poco a poco dejas de quererme
dejaré de quererte poco a poco.

Si de pronto
me olvidas
no me busques,
que ya te habré olvidado.

Si consideras largo y loco
el viento de banderas
que pasa por mi vida
y te decides
a dejarme a la orilla
del corazón en que tengo raíces,
piensa
que en ese día,
a esa hora
levantaré los brazos
y saldrán mis raíces
a buscar otra tierra.

Pero
si cada día,
cada hora
sientes que a mí estás destinada
con dulzura implacable.
Si cada día sube
una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
ay amor mío, ay mía,
en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
sin salir de los míos.

Starlight

Even if you are made of night, try to be made of more starlight than darkness.

The only hand

For a second, the wind blew so hard, it took the rain's breath away and it could not fall, and you had the only hand I wanted to touch.

Beautiful people don't just happen

Beautiful people don't just happen.
It takes a lifetime of being,
A lifetime of evolution,
growth and change.
Because beautiful people are
the re-born product of Old Habits´death.
Beautiful people arise out of tragedy.
They are the survivors after the shipwreck,
They are the buds that bloom after the wild-fire.
Beautiful people don't just happen.
They're made.

Photograph

We keep this love in a photograph.

NOCHE QUE SE DESBORDA DEL CUERPO

Jazmín sobre las noches de julio. Canción 

para dos extraños que se encuentran en 

una calle que no lleva a ninguna parte. 

¿Quién soy yo, después de estos ojos almendrados? 

Dice el desconocido. 

¿Quién soy yo, después de tu exilio en mí? 

Dice la desconocida 

Guardémonos de remover la sal 

de los mares antiguos 

en un cuerpo que recuerda... 

Ella le devuelve su cuerpo cálido 

y él le devuelve su cuerpo cálido. 

Así, los dos amantes extraños dejan su 

amor desordenado, 

como abandonan su ropa interior 

entre las flores de las sábanas. 

- Si de verdad eres mi amado, compón 

un Cantar de los cantares para mí 

y graba mi nombre en la rama de un 

granado, en los jardines de Babilonia. 

- Si me quieres de verdad, posa mi sueño 

entre mis manos y dile 

al hijo de María: Nos has hecho sufrir 

la misma suerte que Tú has elegido. 

Señor, ¿somos lo bastante justos para 

la existencia del mañana? 

- ¿Cómo me curaré del jazmín mañana? 

- ¿Cómo me curaré del jazmín mañana? 

Ellos permanecen juntos, en las sombras 

que se extienden por el techo de su alcoba. 

Ella le dice: No serás sombrío después de mis 

pechos. 

Él responde: Tus pechos son noches que iluminan lo 

esencial, 

noches que me cubren de besos. El lugar y yo 

estamos repletos de noches que se desbordan de la 

copa. 

Ella se ríe de su descripción. Y vuelve a reír 

ocultando la pendiente de la noche en su mano. 

- Amor mío, si pudiera ser un 

chico, sería tú. 

- Y si yo pudiera ser una chica, 

sería tú. 

Ella llora, como siempre, 

al regresar de un cielo color vino. 

Llévame, extranjero, a un país donde 

no posea un pájaro azul sobre un sauce. 

Ella llora, para cruzar sus bosques en 

el largo camino hacia sí misma. 

¿Quién soy yo? ¿Quién soy, después de 

tu exilio de mi cuerpo? 

¡Ay de mí, de ti y de mí país! 

¿Quién soy, después de estos ojos almendrados? 

Muéstrame mi mañana. 

Así, los dos amantes dejan su despedida en 

desorden, 

cual perfume de jazmín sobre las noches de 

julio. 

 

Cuando llega julio, 

el jazmín me lleva a una calle que no conduce 

a ninguna parte, 

pero yo sigo cantando: 

jazmín 

sobre las noches 

de julio.

MAHMUD DARWISH

Hello, I'm doing well.

Hello, I´m doing well.

I´m making good art. I'm seeing other people. I'm reading good books, eating great food, sleeping my eight hours into the night, listening to new songs, (ones that aren't secretly time machines). And yes, I miss you. I miss you, but I´m doing well.

Vanished

They tell us all these stories 

About women who became unforgettable
Because they walked away
And their absence opened up an ocean of longing
And their fault was only that they were too beautiful to be grasped
Between two arms and kept close.

They tell us stories about the women who were unattainable
Because they vanished
Inside a plane to Paris
On a road to Mandalay
In a train to Little Britain
And who carried the hearts of the men they left behind
In their suitcases.

They tell us to leave
In other words,
Because otherwise we will be forgotten
Abandoned
Cheated
Walked over
We will be just the shadow of a dream
And irreplaceable is just a word we fantasize
Because we cannot be the exception
But the painful rule.

But I want to stay
Be the woman
Who remains
Who forgets
That Great Expectations
Was only a movie
In 1998
And Estella was just a girl
Who came back
To the man who felt
She was unforgettable to.

Amor Moderno

Con tal de salvar la relación, se dieron media vuelta
y caminaron en direcciones opuestas.
Partieron,
cada quien por su lado,
pensando que no se volverían a ver en la vida.

Sin embargo,
olvidaron que el mundo es redondo.

Espero curarme de tí

Espero curarme de ti en unos días. Debo dejar de fumarte, de beberte, de pensarte. Es posible. Siguiendo las prescripciones de la moral en turno. Me receto tiempo, abstinencia, soledad. ¿Te parece bien que te quiera nada más una semana? No es mucho, ni es poco, es bastante. En una semana se puede reunir todas las palabras de amor que se han pronunciado sobre la tierra y se les puede prender fuego. Te voy a calentar con esa hoguera del amor quemado. Y también el silencio. Porque las mejores palabras del amor están entre dos gentes que no se dicen nada. Hay que quemar también ese otro lenguaje lateral y subversivo del que ama. (Tú sabes cómo te digo que te quiero cuando digo: “que calor hace”, “dame agua”, “¿sabes manejar?”, “se te hizo de noche”…Entre las gentes, a un lado de tus gentes y las mías, te he dicho “ya es tarde”, y tú sabías que decía “te quiero”.) Una semana más para reunir todo el amor del tiempo. Para dártelo. Para que hagas con él lo que tú quieras: guardarlo, acariciarlo, tirarlo a la basura. No sirve, es cierto. Sólo quiero una semana para entender las cosas. Porque esto es muy parecido a estar saliendo de un manicomio para entrar a un panteón.

(JAIME SABINES)

Rome

Let the statues crumble. 

Let the weeds grow over the pavement.

Remember, Rome was also built on ruins.

Crescent Form

I miss you today and

The sky is more blue than I swear it has ever been
It reminds me of your skin looked in cold temperature,
The way your hands would curl from lack of circulation
I miss them too.

It rained yesterday and it reminded me of
How much we both loved thunderstorms and

falling asleep to the sound of them.

I noticed how well you slept next to me.

Maybe it’s because I am more of a hurricane than anything else,
The way my downpour comes in tidal waves.

I miss you so effortlessly
I do without trying to
Like a body held still with phantom limbs
Like hands that reach forward out of habit

and discover a part now missing.

I have learned how it feels to long for the nonexistent
To wake in the morning to an absence of comfort

laying where you used to rest your head.
Some days I don't want to get out of bed

but I do because you would have wanted me to
Like the way the sun wants to watch trees grow instead of hear branches snap
I never intended to split directly in half
but the winter is colder than I expected it to be and
My skin has turned bark in its roughness,
It is cracking in too many places and it is not very pretty to look at.
I spent too long creating myself out of iron
for you to have to see me rust like this.
I'm sorry.

There are things I want to tell you but
They are things I cannot tell you
Because your ears are not here to listen and if I were to,
The confession would make me more vulnerable than I ever intended on being,
It would scrape me raw and paint me weak, and you’d just stand there

looking into me.

My sense of direction has always been shaky

but now every route to future is tangled in your veins.
I am used to tracing them to get home and
I don't know how to get there anymore.

24 hours have never seemed longer than they do now and
Nights come much sooner when there is no reason to go outside.
I have learned that the sun can't blind you if you don't show your face to it
I stay in out of precaution.

I want to tell you about the moon
That it seems to be growing bigger and bigger

as I shrink into myself further and
I can't remember a time when I felt as whole

as she appears glowing against blackness.
If only I looked that beautiful in half, 
in crescent form.