there is a half empty mug
with cold coffee in the
little table next to the couch.

it's been there for days
watching me lay
covered with that gray blanket
that used to cover us.

if you were here
you'll probably complain
in that incredible annoying way
of yours.

but you are not here
so i think it will stay there
a little longer.

i'm a speaker
at a railway station
of a foreign country.
people is talking
and sound is bad
but if you concentrate
enough you can hear
my voice through the noise.

i saw you yesterday.
you were a seed
capable of growing
into a climbing plant
sticking to all thought
and turning it a little bit more
dark green.

but i yesterday,
a clay ***,
painted in bright colors,
purple mostly,
wasn't able to grow anything.

i don't know
if the reason was
i watered you
with alcohol
and indifference,
or because my soil
is not that fertile anymore.

"Stress is caused by being ‘here’ but wanting to be ‘there’"
that's how a German author defines stress.

I read this quote
and write it down
in that tab I open
secretly at work
to avoid being
seen by my boss.

That tab,
that lives like a refugee,
like everything I like.

Buddha whispers to my ear,
-Attachment is the root of suffering-
with his funny accent
-The richest man is not he who has the most, but he who needs the least.-

I call into question
my arms race
against myself.
That cold war that started years ago
and never ended.

Yahve sets a
bush on fire
on the park
and talks to me.
He talks about
the promised land.
The same land he once promised
to Abraham,
to Isaac,
to Jacob,
to Moises,
to my grandparent,
to my parents.

And I then remember,
I am also a part of this exodus.

-the end justifies the means-
I repeat this to myself,
like a mantra,
trying to convince myself
as I see the parts of me
being left in the path.
The goal blends
into the horizon
like a mirage.

I see how other boys
come closer.
They are younger,
and run faster,
and better.

And I once was
one of those boys,
ready to run for days.
Privileged.
My parents ensure
my path has less rocks
and that my wall
(that wall people who run long distances know)
was lower and softer.

I see the corpses in the path
of the persons who weren't even able to see
the end.

My life is a constant wanting
to reach those lands
while I hate the desert
under my feet.

the red light
stops me.

you are always there;
with your arms
full of flowers.

your flowers travel
in the passenger car seat
to the arms of a lover,
to the table of a hospital,
to the planks of a stage,
to a sanctuary.

and I wonder
if someone,
ever,
gave you flowers;
and if you ever
wanted
to be that lover,
or that patient,
or that actress,
or that saint.

I wonder
where you dreamed being at
when you were 10 years old.

¿what circumstances
ripped you off that dream
and put you over this
badly paved avenue?

the green light
illuminate us
again.

Leaving your apartment
at 2 am never
gets easier.

I'm always expecting
to hear some words
you never said.

stay.
sleep here tonight.

But it's okay,
I guess;
Because we
are nothing more
than 2 strangers.

2 souls
sharing some hours,
pretending
it's only lust.

And by the way
it would be impractical
for us to fall in love.

wake up at six 6am.
grab my phone.
check my feed.

you are always
there.
first post.
always wearing
your beautiful
smile.

maybe the algorithm
realized how
i stare at our photos,
some nights
before sleeping.

maybe he
makes the sum
of our unsaid words
and multiplies it
by those nights
i fell asleep in
your chest.

maybe he
never heard
our fights.
the shouting,
the crying.
or maybe he did
but just choose
to keep them
out of the equation.

maybe he
knows
you are still
the first person
i think of
when i wake.

i scratch my eyes
and keep scrolling.