11.06.14 🌺

i can count on you to ruin me like i can count on the sun to rise every morning

how jealous I am of the rain that gets to touch your skin how jealous I am of the air that gets to fill your lungs how jealous I am of the sun that wakes up next to you

Under your skin the moon is alive.

Y si nada nos libra de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.

…I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. On nights like this, I held her in my arms. I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her. How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her. To hear the immense night, more immense without her. And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her. The night is full of stars and she is not with me. That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away. My soul is lost without her. As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her. My heart searches for her and she is not with me. The same night that whitens the same trees. We, we who were, we are the same no longer. I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her. My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once belonged to my kisses. Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her. Love is so short and oblivion so long. Because on nights like this I held her in my arms, my soul is lost without her. Although this may be the last pain she causes me, and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Y para cuando el cabello me haya tocado los hombros, yo te habré olvidado.

Quiet the mind, and the soul will speak.