i told you

yesterday

that it had been a deeply beautiful day

and you, nodding with fierce, agreed

                                        (at that point,
                                         hadn't you notice, how your recent looped hair
                                         started to perform like vigorous hands, moved only
                                         by your thoughts?)

you claimed we had spoken already about that 

when we step out of the house, in the morning                           

                              (as if the air didn't hold any undescriptible magic in itself)

although

nothing

not even the slightest thing

made you participant of its existence.

                                               (unlike me)

Descanso en los ángulos de las ramas

que me observan mientras pienso.

 

Escribo, a veces

solo para oír el tierno ronroneo 

que desprenden las flores muertas

       dentro de mi jarrón

                               lleno de aire

en verdad

aquella noche me había ido con las flores 

to understand that you're not just
that body or the curly shadow belonging to it
not the words you speak nor the funny gestures of your eyes
to become aware that i would never know your inner self as you
won't either way know mine.

and to breath into that idea while my mind casually imagines
the lightness of a feather, that is still hanging and rocking
and may every day be lifted up
if we both live in accordance to what could be
the simplest condition for love:

to surrender to someone's life
with the constant awareness that you're just not
part of me.

(I
can
only
desire
what
involves
                                                                 mystery).

 y dejaré de silenciarme

hablaré por mi y por las ramas
y por los ojos de los pájaros
y por las formas de las cosas
y por las cosas

todas