Mi nombre

Una caricia que sea prueba no sólo 
de amor, sino de nuestra existencia misma

Que vaya más allá del tiempo y del espacio; más allá de ti y de mí y de nuestros límites humanos.

Que viva y regale vida en un amanecer rojo como fuego en las manos, que arde sin dolor.

Y nos vuelva omnipotentes en el instante en que nuestras lenguas se toquen.

Una caricia que sea más que las palabras -pues son solo palabras todo lo que tengo para enamorarte- jugándonos el todo por el todo, de un amor que sabe navegar de ida y de regreso:

Desde siempre, en tus estrellas estuvo escrito mi nombre. 

Betrayal

"I want roses" written on the mirror and a smile across his face lightenend the atmosphere surrounding. The sole remembrance of her soft curves did. Wrapped in a lacey black garter belt, silk stockings and stilettos, as last night she was. If there was ever a woman´s body which bespoke tenderness, it was hers. Her smell, her warmth, all her sweetness was his, undilluted, undisputable. Always calling on gentle words to him, her only love. Just last night he twisted slightly and then pulled the pearl string she was wearing around her neck. She gave him a smug stare and the undisturbed grin of one perpetually in love. She would have never been with anyone else. No, she could never... or could she? Thuded the question even deeper as his hand ran up and down the delicate line between her cleavage and her ear, time and time again.

Though he never spoke his doubt, she knew: "You know I didn´t. I love you" she said in a hushed voice, her eyes piercing with request end expectation. But it was already too late. No word she could say would change his mind; he would never again laugh excitedly after making love to her and feeling the endorphin burst that always came with their culmination. He would never dream of her again. She stood in awe watching from a corner of the room, which was now ominously quiet and seemed to grow darker as her light slowly faded. She did nothing, but to exist. And now, this existence was forbidden by him.  Or maybe it was the therapist. Or maybe the pill, who knows. They called her "a delusion". But it is all over now... How could she have forseen such betrayal?

lineas paralelas

Te busco en trozos de mi vida y no te encuentro.

En el sol, en la montaña, y en cada uno de los colores que percibo.

Te busco cuando estoy despierta; de noche te sueño.

En frases frías –que solo constan de palabras- en vano te invento.

¿Y si fuera ese mi error? Tal vez no debí buscarte.

Tan absorta yo, que quien me busca no logra encontrarme

Le he puesto letras de más al amor; lo convertí en deseo

Y  en pasión, esperanza, y en la sonrisa que te robé.

Mi infierno

Sería el no poder saber de ti.

Un invierno crudo y gris.

Sin palabras ni nada:

mi infierno sería el no volverte a oír.

El silencio, el hambre,

caminando sin descanso para nunca llegar.

Tu invierno es mi infierno; es mi falta de poder.

Y que no contestes al llamarte.

La consternación de no amarte.

Odio el frío. Odio el olvido y el vacío.

Es mi infierno lo que odio.

Y lo que amo de ti, y no puedo tener.

o el beso yermo que dejaste

o sentirme marchitar sin ti

pintando el cielo sombrío

del universo en que no estás. 

Abuelo

Sus grandes manos calientitas aferrándose fuertemente a las mías y sus ojos de miel brillando como cristales esa última noche. No queríamos despedirnos. Fue un medio abrazo ahogado en la emoción  del momento y el miedo de quizá no volvernos a ver -porque nadie sabe lo que viene después-. Yo solo sabía lo que ha pasado: que lo extraño mucho. Que desde que se fue, nada ha vuelto a ser igual.
Yo sé que se hubiera quedado. Yo quería quedarme, pero ya no era posible; estabamos muy cansados, de tanto platicar historias que no me tocó vivir pero eran parte de mi: las minas, los caballos, el gran amor que los llevó hasta aquel momento y me había puesto aquí... las tres últimas noches las pasamos sin dormir. Al final yo ya tenía sueño, pero esas manos me despertaban. Y su mirada. 
Ahora que lo pienso, fue todo muy rápido aunque las horas parecieron fluir tan lentas... y mi cuerpo cansado...  Dormí por todo un dia y toda una noche. Y mis brazos y piernas descansaron, pero mi alma siguió dolida, porque al perder algo así ¿cómo puede ser igual de plena que antes? El dolor solo parece esconderse por un rato, y en días como hoy regresa. Ya no con llanto o abrazos de simpatía; quizá hay quienes ya no lo recuerden, solo algunos como yo. Es solo un dejo de apatía, un velo gris que cubre las horas en que lo extraño.   

Savor

How have I wished for his lovely flesh

Tepid, soft as a greenhouse: I’d always find that smell,  

even in the deepest dark of forests, by storm washed and bled.

And I´ve grown closer to his shadow than I´ve ever been to his hand.

As ephemeral as this breath, our destinies forever changed

Devoured to the pit, wrapped warm in the white snow

Diluted in saliva our ravenous taste.

“Let me steal this moment from your life”

He stole my life from that moment as well

Impossible.  Digressed:

The infinite black void surrounding this bed.

Pink wine

-Good afternoon… he said to me, as I greeted back. But the impersonality of those two words was tainted by the look we exchanged then, and the sudden warm, cozy feeling that rose from below the waist up to our blushing faces.  

-What do you think? Am I good enough a goddess? I asked him in a cheeky tone.  He tried to mumble an answer, but then he just nodded.  My first job as a model, impersonating the Diana of the Romans for this painter. I was as excited as he evidently was. Such a talented young man. So we sat front to front and stayed mute for a while, sipping coffee. Finally, he gathered the courage to ask me about my interests, pleasures, aspirations and dreams. We had quite a deep conversation within the lapse of two hours which seemed like two minutes.

The next day, the meeting; he was all business as he worked swiftly on a mythological portrait that acknowledged all of the treats of my physique, but none of my flaws. This went on for many afternoons –I´ve tried, to no use, to remember how many- until one late night, he was done.  Flattering perfection.  Two cool glasses of pink wine to celebrate.  I came closer to him to admire the work; he quietly turned around and grabbed me, one hand on my waist, the other around my neck, and kissed me violently. I didn´t mean to stop him, though he kissed and bit so hard that my lower lip had a slight taste of blood as his hand pressed on my throat. And so he did not stop till we ended up naked, holding on to each other in a couch at his studio, tired and aching muscles.

-I believed  you only did writers.

- Well, I  love art in general. I´m not exclusive of any branch-  said I with a bored grin, while wondering how he´d arrived to that conclusion: my fame preceded me, both as a journalist and as a friend to people of arts. Too bad I would be neither to him; I was there to be his executioner.

At first I had thought I´d just pull out the .38 and shoot him. But as afternoons went by, I grew kind of fond of him, so I knew I had to choose a less violent method. 

My mobile rang. It was one of my writer friends –hello… yes, I´m at the bar… Ok, I´ll be there… Right, see you there in twenty; bye!

I wasn´t paying attention to my painter, as if he was banished from me already. But when he spoke, I instinctively turned to see him utter his very last words:

-You know? Even before you took that call, I knew you were going to lie…

I stood there in front of him, the one passing out… passing away pondering his unasked-for- opinion  momentarily.  Am I so deceitful?

No.  I think it´s the cyanide speaking…