Siempre estabas a punto de partir,
siempre en otra parte, detrás del mar,
más allá de Madrid o Sri Lanka.
Te morías por volver,
nos moríamos debajo de las piedras
y las nubes y los Borges, en el fondo de las botellas.
¡Qué nostalgia tan cruda!

Y yo que nunca terminé de encontrarte,
de destilar los lejanos paraísos
que alguna vez consumimos,
entre besos y cigarros.
Y yo, que nunca aprendí con que ojos verte,
algún día, entre mañana y nunca,
ya no volví.

I am in love with words.
We have been reduced to words.
To descriptions of our day,
To small talk,
To simple exchanges,
To hellos and good-byes.

I am in love with words.
I read them over,
And over,
And over again.
I move them around,
Pinning fragments together,
Forming sentences,
Paragraphs,
Novels.
I am like a kindergartener,
Building a collage of words.

I am in love with words,
At night the spaces between letters blur,
And form lines.
They paint pictures.

I am in love with words.
I hold them close to me as I sleep,
And I dream of tomorrow.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.