all the answers to
my questions can
be found in my
old old poems
(or by
applying common-
sense tbh…)

how f#cked up
do we really are
that we can’t
see the obvious,
plain, and simple
truth
when it’s just
in front of us?!!?
sorry,
I meant inside* of us.

your name
is still on my door’s
nameplate.
next to mine.

i haven’t had
the strength to
change it.

you know how much
i hate doing
mundane things:
cooking dinner,
washing dishes,
folding clothes.

but sometimes,
you just need to do it;
you know…
the work.

i wonder
how we managed
to convince our hands
not to hold onto each other
when we said goodbye.

now, i'm writing
inside this flying can;
thinking this might be the closest
to a home.

these small seats,
with even smaller legs space.
these funny-shaped windows,
where all you can see are
white clouds,
and sporadically
some lights.
tiny houses,
with even tinier people.

and us,
tiny giants,
reading overpriced perfume catalogs,
listening to mispronounced english,
using disposable low-fidelity headphones,
inside low-light low-love low-cost
low-everything
airplanes.

the cities
redraw their borders and
fragment their spaces
into small cubes:
apartments,
studios,
and duplex houses.
and you,
with a thousand windows open
in windows,
your emoji hands,
and your microphone muted.

please. no.
don't make me
domesticate this
with words.
i don't want to name it;
grabbing, whatever this is,
and pushing it
inside a box,
a bra, a khaki short,
a short light purple skirt.
believe me,
we can use language
for nobler things.
this needs no words,
nor tags,
but your body
against mine.

i feel
how you feel
about me
and it’s uncomfortable
but i pretend
i don’t notice.
playing fool
makes things easier
and allows me to avoid
having to tell you:
no.
i wonder why i get
your attention,
your compliments.
is it because i’m young
or foreign
or fool
or all of them.
would you still buy me
this drink if i was not young,
not foreign,
less fool;
and
how this gin
would taste?

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.

We are not just order in the disorder;
We are order fighting
for not being
disorder.

Order breathing.
order eating order.
order fighting
ord er cryi n g
o rde r la ugh in g
   or de r  l o v i n g
  
  o r der  di str ess e     d  
b  yt h e  f a c  t
a l    l
o  rd e   r
e ven   t  ual    ly
be co m                         es
di           s  or        d  er

Hell is this house.

Your phone calls
dropping at 4 am
like bomb blasts.

Your perfume,
like a refugee,
living between
my messy
bed sheets.

Your stuff,
strategically forgotten,
in every **** corner.

Each room a minefield.
Each drawer a thread.

I finally finish packing up the last boxes.
Load them in my car.
Close the front door.
Turn the engine on.
Leave.
See you waving from the rear-view mirror.

Some last spams
from those muscles
I haven't used in a while,
makes me feel alive.

My heart,
naive,
believes it can still love
like it used to.
It is just that ****
muscle memory.

Your words hit me.
Hurt me.
But no longer
pierce me.
Short range
now they are.

My denatured  enzymes,
possessed by salt,
just want to drown.

Anything that stops
the aftershocks in my body
that follow the earthquake
our love once was.

He was standing on the edge.
The stars, all of them,
shouted at him
but in a frequency
he was unable to listen.

Bellow him,
the tempting emptiness,
the absence of everything,
good and bad.

It was hard to resist
taking that path.
So fast. A shortcut.

He never knew how to wait.
- There is no shortcut to
anyplace worth going-
remember her mother saying,
but he never understood those words.

His little planet
was becoming extinct.
Trees were dying
on their knees.

He raise one of her feet
and put it over the emptiness;
when his phone started ringing.

A friend texted him.
He was coming over in five.
The phone in his hand became
a thin taut gold thread
that guide him back inside.

My head
lays down over
the strong dynasty
your chest is.

I listen your heart,
arrhythmic,
reciting far away verses about
some kings without castles
nor titles.

Recklessly,
I fall asleep
inside the shelter
of your peaceful kingdom.

Your firmament applies me
a force, equal and opposite,
to the weight of my head,
full of semi precious stones
and keeps me
from falling.