jueves, 21 de enero de 2016


We haven't taken much seriously the fact that we hurt each other so badly. And it's fine, cause the branches of the trees don't have eyes, and they don't look back to see how much they've grown and what leaves have died in the process. They just grow new leaves, and I write new stories. 
I am not a tree, not even a branch. And I can still remember you. No matter if I like it or not. I do, my bodie does remember. Somewhere deep inside me, there's a guy jacking off to the soft porn videos we recorded in a jacuzzi, at a motel with a name in Spanish, the name of a girl no one ever loved. Somewhere else, even deeper, another guy jacks off with two videos, videos of us making out with strangers. It's weird how you can lose control of the deepest feelings, just as if it happened outside your flesh. But I'm okay, you are too. And we write new stories. We are cold, after boiling like geisers and reaching the highest. We come down, because everything that rises, falls equally.
You were loved, like a girl named Valerie with a boyfriend named Joe. Like a shore without rocks, and a sea dancing in front of it, with turquoise movements and white clouds watching them from above. 
I have no poetry left inside, but I can easily imagine this words forming picturesque landscapes into your mind. I certainly do. 
I make echoes, they sound empty inside your ears, but I fight a war that remains unholy, and it seems like I can't make mistakes. I fight a war that remains unholy, and I am a stranger to myself, I am a stranger to the world, but I recognize my face reflected in antique mirrors and songs that I heard some weeks ago. 
Everyday I live different emotions, and I think this isn't bad, because a guy named Andy said once that something is special if you do it once in your life or absolutely everyday. Otherwise it loses its magic. I think he's right, just like everyone who talks from experience. 
I wake up too early to notice I'm already late, I like all colors of flowers from pink to gray, and no one has pity there's only the illusion of always counting on yourself. 

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