I know my mirror is broken, I know.
As long as the ocean keeps coming back
and it's blue, it's like you were here.
And I can feel you and be blown
by the wind, and be brought back,
and be tossed around. What a tiny
vision, I know, trying to save yourself
from yourself. And the future bleeds.
I know I'm wrong, I know I am.

When I try to go out, -but you try.
When I try to turn white.
I like to imagine you
looking at the back of my head,
collecting flying leaves,
sitting inside the empty end of time,
transformation, like a butterfly
bursting the bubble, just reaching out
and grabbing trees, and sins, and this is
your way of saying I wont be around,
probably, I wont.

Dear me, I became aware so suddenly
that a self fulfilling prophecy is like
a cloudless sky and it gets you down.
That there is no empty space left
in the darkness, and it gets you down.
Who can say how much prettier you will look
tomorrow, distracted, playing your part,
learning how the flapping of your wings
affect the world around you; who is to know
if you are going to rule this out
as a superstition of a heart.

I wasn't myself at all, this year.
Or maybe I should say that I was me
as much as I could. Look into my
mental health trough my words.

We foresee ourselves as the resolved version
of an unsolvable mathematical problem.
I see a picture of me, alongside other people,
and feel like I´m a photoshopped image,
which is pretty much how I feel most of the time.

I like to think of it
as a philosophical matter,
nothing else. Psychologists,
refrain from commenting.
Otherwise, I imagine myself
giving you the finger.

I also need to mention
that the new ghost is growing
healthy and laughing, behind
the door where it can jump
on my shoulders the minute
I walk in.

On the bright side, someone said
I´m weird but interesting.
The inflection was on the term "weird".
***** it, I´ll take that any day!
Even if it´s only a small battle
that will not win any war.

The problem with this autobiographical poems
is that I never know how to finish'em
and I sense there´s also meaning in this.
With the above being said, I guess I´m still
the same, and that is ******* frightening.

What time is it? Are you coming
late? Are you coming at all?
I've been waiting for you.

I was mistaken, you were coming
not towards me but only
moving in my general direction.

Look at you, how you pass with your
young confidence, overflowing
and ready to drift away.

You will never know about the wreckage
you create. You are the one who
leave the sunken ships, burning.

Recurrent dreams are to man
what pikes are to the bull.
It angers you that they remain dreams
and there is no good promise
at the end of the night.

I've found myself looking at your empty chair.
Your cats and mine are also staring, they also
search beyond the glass line of the horizon
that extends forbiddingly close, a limit
that is at the same time boundary and edge.

Did you know glass is neither a solid nor a liquid?
An amorphous solid, they call it.
It has to do with painstakingly slow moving atoms.
I like this quote: "it would take longer than the universe
has existed for room-temperature glass to rearrange itself
to appear melted."

But going back to your empty chair,
I sometimes feel like if I look to close
I'm going tho pass through my own image
and when I'm finally done crossing
you will be staring back towards my empty chair.

Did you know there is no such thing as a dark side of the moon?
Tidal locking, they call it.
It is kind of an interminable dance, gaze locking.
We see the same face, until you cross that is,
you will find there's sun on the other side alright.
But that's still a great album, if you ask me.

What will happen once we are on the same side, if ever?
I don't know, but I will tell you what we'll have.

We'll have three cats,
some broken glass to pick up,
unknown seas and valleys to explore,
and two empty chairs.

The truth is that I will hardly ever be
as funny as the one who makes you laugh,
nor as sweet as the one who makes you awww,
and not even as strong as the one whose shoulder
you choose to lean your head on.
I mean, I am all those things in my mind,
and when you are not looking my way,
but I guess those fictions aren't seductive enough,
hardly for anyone or for anything.

But my most serious fault is, I know,
that I have you waiting for a punchline
that will not come. I can feel
the weight of the bad joke, believe me.

I'm still waiting for the punchline too.
I got old waiting for it.

Separation is not only a matter of distance but also of purpose and will.