I hate to be the one to break it to you,
right on the first day of the year anew,
but here’s the breaking news:
I am the one for you.

Yet the ball is no longer in my court.
This is not a game, but love burns and hurts.
Love is not a war, but a kingdom has a court.
And every king needs his queen of hearts.

And if I am the one, you would see my heart is not easily won.
You can try, but you can’t find another of my kind among the ton.
And if you even dare, you would come closer and get out of your phone.
You can fly, sway, cry, swing, but you can’t avoid me, I’m your new bone.

And if you wanna play, you’d win a prize you’ve never had before.
Yes you’d feel every emotion you’ve never known, except bored.
And if you wanna fight, you’d bring a castle facing the sea, along the shores.
But no, the ball is no longer in my court,
and I am sure as day, that’s for sure.

You know it, and you know it well.
Do I really have to say it? Hell.
I'll get straight to the point;
I am the obvious choice.
You can’t shake me, I’m your joint;
before you sleep, I’m that little voice.
Do you really have others anyway?
And if you do, are there really
better options, by the way?
Are there any other poems on your desk?
And if there are, are they actually
sent and written by the best?
So do I really have to say it?
You already know it.
No matter the language,
the truth simply drips from your lips.
You can’t escape me, I’m your missing rib;
before you go, kiss me as you pull my hips.
I’m the wave that rips.
I’m the edge of the cliff.
I’m the winning manuscript.
You know it, and you know it well.

De enero a junio a diciembre,
no hay clima que no quiera volver.
Este año se sintió como una puta pistola,
sintió como una telenovela.
Monté a caballo, tuve accidentes,
besé cabrones, morí mil muertes.
Monté olas y quedé atrapado bajo el agua.
probé amapolas y desperté en Nicaragua.
Desde el verano hasta el invierno,
no hay mes que me haga decir “¡Lo probando!”
Este año es simplemente el peor,
Lleno de error pero también lleno de color.
Pero volveré a montar,
como el mejor vaquero y rejoneador.
Pero lo volveré a hacer,
como el mejor torero y matador.
Moriré otra vez y viviré otra y otra vez,
como la protagonista de una telenovela.
Podría hacer esto una y otra vez,
como una puta telenovela!

Am I naughty or am I nice?
An angel or a *****?
Will I be your victory or vice?
A cherub or a siren?
Am I a dream come true or the color blue?
Am I a gift or a piece of wood adrift?
And if I make a wish, would it be for you?
Would I be the fundamental keys, like Ctrl+Shift?
And if I set the tone, will you follow through?
Would I be a letter you'll burn or a masterpiece you'll keep?
And if we see this through, to whom do we say thanks to?

I am the earth.
I seek the sea,
occupy the ocean,
wish for the water.
While you,
yearn for the earth,
lead the lands,
savour the soil.
I am the earth
And I wish for you.
I wish for you.
I’ve been wishing for you...

I’m not in school anymore
No longer a girl either.
So this is not some schoolgirl crush.
And I don’t need more soul lessons.
And I am not one to do crushes.
In fact, I want soul-crushing romance.
And I think this is it.
Except it’s not.
Not a romance.
But it’s soul-crushing.
But if I must be,
I will be a student.
If I really have to,
I will learn.
I will write.
I will read.
Again
and again.

I’m running out of metaphors.
In that sense, ‘metaphors’ is a metaphor
for your time, not mine.
And you’re running out of good years.
In that sense, ‘good years’ is a metaphor
for your options, also not mine.
I wanted to be the one to make you happy,
I wanted you to be the subject of my poetry.
But what else can a woman like me do?
I am a little girl in front of a man like you.
What gift do you get a guy
who seem to have it all?
Where do you take a man
who’s been everywhere?
What song can you sing
to someone who’s heard every sound?
What else can you give
to somebody who’s done it all?
What poem can I write for you,
that will make you want to choose me?
And what can you do to impress
a person who’s been with everyone?

Silence.
Nowhere.
Static.
Nothing.
Blank page.
Radio silence.