quisiera escaparme contigo,
vivir un poquito una parte de ti:
la noche, y su madrugada.

si supieras que pienso en ti
a cada instante,
si apreciaras tantito
esta forma de querer,
te darías cuenta que tienes algo especial.
pero tal vez solo te incomode,
o pensaras que aburrido,
que absurda forma de querer.
pero nadie mas te va a querer así,
de lejos como si nada,
tan cerca al tocarte,
y aun así no tenerte ni una sola vez.
nadie mas te va a esperar,
con estas ganas de besar tu nariz,
de recorrer los dedos en tu rostro,
sabiendo que tal vez un día
te esfumes como si nada hubiese importado,
por que se que para ti no lo hago.
no me importa.
te quiero, y te espero.
si supieras que te adoro,
que me duermo pensando
en el color de tus ojos,
o en la forma que tus dedos
acarician los mios....
pensarias que estoy loca,
al seguir atandome a ti,
aun sabiendo que no me quieres;
tal vez pienses que soy tonta,
y no lo puedo negar;
en este juego de amor,
si voy perdiendo yo.
pero espero al recorrer el tiempo,
y yo vaya logrando olvidarte,
espero que pienses en mi,
aunque sea una sola vez,
y digas, y te des cuenta,
que te quise de verdad,
y que tuviste algo especial,
al alcance de tus dedos,
y lo dejaste ir.

All my life
(These past 2 decades of fast paced growth)
I searched for this one love,
The one the books were written about,
The songs, the movies, the poems.
And I thought how I would know.
Sometimes, I do know.
I know, for example,
When your voice is groggy
And I can hear the words stick to each other sleepily,
When I call you at half past noon on a Sunday,
And I have woken you;
I know then that I love you.
Or,
When we speak for a few hours before bed,
And I hear the swish of a toothbrush so casually over the receiver,
And I imagine you, your left hand on the edge of the sink, leaning,
And the phone between your right shoulder and ear
As you brush and listen, making faces at the mirror.
That's how I know that I love you:
That it's the little, tiny moments that you give me carelessly,
That it's the seconds that you are unguarded,
That I hold precious.
That is your essence.
I steal a few glances now and then,
As you hold me and watch that kids' movie,
And I know then,
When I find the silhouette of your lips
Outlined against the movie screen
To be beautiful,
That I love in a way I hadn't before.
I know that only I love you.
I know that it is make believe for you,
I know because you do not live for my stolen moments,
(You do not, for example, know that when I am angry,
My lips shrink into a stern little pout;
Nor that when I am happy
I bounce on the ***** of my feet,
Like a child).
You do not find endearing
The trembling of my voice,
Or the honesty of my necessity for you.
I know.
I know I found the reason for my words,
Sleepless nights,  tearful epiphanies and rash decisions;
I found why those songs and those books and those movies
Do not play out in real life,
But seem rather like other universes
of pretty people with too much free time.
I've discovered how I know I love you
With the passion of 2 decades of search:
Because I have learned to love the small,
Human,  imperfect things about you,
Like the way you yawn into the phone,
Or forget names.
That's the epistemology of this feeling
That otherwise I can't explain.

sos ese pájaro:
plumaje purpura,
azul,
verde bosque....
sos así,
un canto fuerte, claro
retumbante
entre las hojas de los arboles,
fluido,
parecido a los rayos de sol
que se pasean entre las ramas....
sos ese pájaro,
y yo trate,
si que trate,
mantenerte en mi jaula.
pero hasta yo,
deslumbrada como lo estaba
sabia,
sabia desde el fondo de mi corazón
que no estaba bien:
que te conocí silvestre,
libre
y que si así te quise,
así tendría que quererte aun.
abrir esa jaula fue agridulce.
volaste, sin siquiera pensarlo,
sin siquiera voltearme a ver,
una alma bohemia, al fin.
te extraño.
de vez en cuando escucho to dulce canto,
y aunque triste,
se que te sigo queriendo,
y se que así es mejor.

i remember that day
i took your hand,
hoping to find a little bit of warmth:
your fingers did not curl around mine;
i froze.
"You don't want to?"
i asked, my voice rising a little,
in time with my temper.
yours matched mine.
"what? i didn't say anything."
my fingers curled around your unmoving hand.
i wanted to cry.
we continued to walk,
my eyes staring at the concrete.
i wanted so much to be cared for.
and here i was instead,
holding on to unhappiness.
it was a quiet walk home,
it was cold.
i took my hand into my pocket,
and you said nothing.
i always needed you more,
more than you did me.

Si fuéramos ciegos los dos
yo creo que te querría igual,
y tal vez tú un poquito más.
si fuéramos ciegos los dos,
podrías ver mas claramente
que te quiero,
que te quiero,
y que te querré
como nadie mas.
Si fuéramos ciegos los dos,
por que yo si te quiero así:
con los ojos cerrados,
y el corazón abierto,
con una mente loca,
sin razón.
Si fuéramos ciegos los dos,
como lo somos cuando cierras tus ojos,
cuando así nos besamos,
y nos guía el tacto,
el tacto y el gusto...
Si fuéramos ciegos los dos.

you were a television soldier,
and played into the hours of the morning,
killing virtual versions of demons gone amok;
this was better than staying here with me,
and chasing mine away.
you were a television soldier,
and i would smile to imagine you,
my little pacifist shooting away,
turning into a gory executioner;
the smile would fade.
your hands were not meant to ****.
your mind was not meant to contemplate ******.
no, your hands were meant to caress,
my body and my soul;
your mind was meant to consider life with me.
you were a television soldier,
but you want to serve a nation?
serve it here with me:
what this country needs is not war,
or more young men dying;
no what this country needs is love.

there is something about the color black,
the smoothness,
the sheer elegance
the grungy roughness
of it.
Black,
the color of death?
i see life
in the ebony skin
of my brothers and sisters,
i see life
in the black of my eyes,
i see life in the black feathers
of the bird, prey of death.
Black is beautiful.
the constellations lie
in a black background
and shine for it the brighter.
Black takes me from
moody adolescent
to professional young lady,
to his **** woman.
Black transforms.
Black is edgy,
it's quiet,
it's power,
ever present
as the pupil into our lives.
black is, when light isn't.

her skin was pale,
i guess that's what they mean about french girls;
her lips were red
as they sipped
that fruity little drink
at a second-rate club,
and her
green, pleated skirt
swished
to the rhythm of some song.
i sat at the bar,
looking at my own hands,
brown like caramel,
and
realized for a moment,
that i could fall in love
with the milky skin
of her calves.
i guess that's what they mean about french girls.
she spoke in english,
with an intoxicating accent
that became more slurred
the more she tried to quench her thirst.
she smiled at me.  
her brown curls bounced on her shoulders,
and she danced
with the Arabic boy
that had been staring at her since
that first day we left the country
for the weekend.
for that moment,
i questioned my self,
and
i guess that's what they mean about french girls.

tengo miedo.
se que si me pides que te espere,
se que lo voy hacer.
se que si me lo pides,
perderé un millón de minutos,
miles de horas y días,
se que perderé años,
esperando tu regreso.
se que si me lo pides,
gastare mi tinta en escribirte,
que dormiré poco pensándote
que rezare a ese Dios
en el que antes  no creía,
buscando un poquito de fe
y una señal
que no espero en vano.
tengo miedo.
se que te seré fiel,
aunque no nos ate nada,
y se entonces
que perderé mil oportunidades
de encontrar el amor,
de encontrar la paz del alma,
lejos de ti.
tengo miedo,
si te vas
y me pides
que te espere,
que te guarde
un rinconcito de mi corazón.
tengo miedo,
porque te esperare
incondicional,
y tal vez no regresaras
y entonces,
que voy hacer?

te piensas ir:
no quiero que te vayas;
no me dejes, no.