Cuando la noche es gris y fría,
te espero como esperaría
un atardecer colorido cada día.

Cuando la montaña se vuelve traicionera,
me aferro a ti como a una piedrita
que me ayudará y salvará mi vida.

Pero cuando esta ciudad se vuelve demasiado exigente,
¿serán nuestro amor el teatro
al final de cada agotador mes?

Y cuando la vida se vuelve
demasiado implacable,
¿sería este hogar el confesionario
o la iglesia al fin de cada semana horrible?

Pero cuando la música se detenga
y todo deje de ser divertido,
¿me seguirás abrazando,
manteniéndome a salvo del frío?

Y cuando el telón cae
y el escenario se oscurece,
¿te quedarás aquí conmigo
hasta que veamos el amanecer?

We would exchange contents of our souls,
open up my hips like you would a hole,
where you'll pour your sadness into;
and cover all over my grief,
like I'd spill my anxiety,
then glaze over your anguish.
So, we'll never have ***, I think.
We would rip each other's skin like ribs,
tear through our necks,
leave them red with bites and nibs;
or maybe it’ll be a slow night and we’ll read,
and maybe you’ll tell me I am who you need.
So we’ll never have ***, I believe.
I would tell you how sometimes slow hurts,
and sometimes,
it’s the absence of fire that burns.
I would tell you how it doesn’t make sense,
and sometimes,
what makes it present is the absence itself.
So we’ll never have ***, I bet.
Maybe you could tell me about these instead;
how you don’t know when it happened.
or if you could, tell me at what moment?
Maybe tell me that I'm always in your head;
or wishing I'm giving you one instead.
And that you don’t know how it started.
But it’s starting now isn’t?
It’s brewing now at this very moment,
or even way before.
Come closer, tell me how
you’ve been waiting for this very moment.
Whisper how you want more.
Come to me, my wave, I am your shore.

Je sais que tu ne peux toujours
pas m'oublier, comme ta belle histoire.
Tu ne peux pas oublier mon nom
non plus, c'est comme chuchoter "bonsoir".
Je veux oublier comment tu prononces
mon nom, mais je n'arrive pas à me souvenir
d'admettre que tu l'as dit le mieux.
Peut-être que je le ferais enfin si seulement
tu me disais aussi s'il y a quelqu'un qui
pourrait t'embrasser mieux que moi.
Même si mes amis me coupaient
la tête parce que je pense encore
à toi dix mois plus ****,
même si le monde entier
me faisait un procès parce
que je continue à essayer
d'écrire sur toi après un an,
je me brosserais les cheveux,
remonte mes seins,
je mettrais mon trousseau,
réparer ma jupe
je me tiendrais devant une vitre et je dirais:
"Qu'ils mangent du brioche!"
mais pas après que tu aies
encore goûté à mon gâteau.
Mais pas après que tu aies
encore goûté à mon gâteau,
encore et encore...

"Love waits, lust rushes",
some idiot on Instagram preaches.
Or Idstagram, if you will.
I call him one, but it's the truth
he brews, spews and spill.
He's an idiot for he fell in love indeed.
"Find your missing rib, not another *****",
another proclaimsㅡa poet this time around.
That would be me, only if you want.
I meant the idiot poet or your missing rib.
You can call me a fool, for it's the truth
I keep, speak and ****.
A friend who lies or a lover who stays still.
I could be both, if you wish.
Choice is not mine, not this time.

How social is a "social" dance exactly?
Depending on one's culture, does it vary?
How "intimate" do you consider intimacy?
Depending on which parts of your body?
How would you define what's touchy?
Depending on where you want it, maybe?
But when do friends dance, exactly?
Is it every after midnight, when they're free?
Or when all eyes gaze, at afternoon at three?
And where do friends dance, precisely?
Is it at the supermarket, with so much glee?
Or when they're uninhibited, at some party?
So how do friends dance, really?
Would you be so kind as to teach me?
Would you be graceful enough to guide me?
Would you step first and lead me?
Would you stop last to kiss me?

Where could it be?
Where is this taking me?
My hopes are anything but high.
My ink for poetry is running dry.
Where is my one horse running off to?
Where exactly is the end of the rainbow?
I keep searching and screaming for it.
I keep yearning and yelling for this.
Still, it could be me and you.
Still, despite the shades of blue.
The last nugget of gold that I will rush to.
The last star that's burning in the metro.
This city ain't big enough for both of us,
but your room might just be.
There ain't room for both of us in this town,
but in my bed there might just be.

But do you know that all of these takes time?
That you simply can't just wake up good?
That this is one thing you can't do online?
That this is more than wearing boots?
But do you know how much time is mine?
That you might wanna share perhaps?
But do you know how long must I ride?
Before you enter the arena and do laps?
But do you know that all of these takes time?
That even the greatest cowboy can fall?
That if you think it could be anywhere,
could it possibly be on my bed or hall?
Do you know that it takes hell of a practice?
But then if it's the art of cantering,
my body is but one masterpiece,
you are a renaissance artist.
But if a horse is poetry in motion,
your legs writes classic novels
I don't wish to ever end.
And if this little tryst is all but a play,
then we better make it worthwhile
do it best more than a playwright.