It's been 213 days since that night
and yet I still can't erase your smile
from my mind
or forget the way your brown eyes gleamed
in the darkness of your room.
I can't ignore the feeling of your body
pressed softly against mine.
I can't.
I can't.
I can't.

The night is delirious.
The lights of the city are
small, broken, hallucinogenic eyes
that are watching us.
I want to be in the middle of a highway.

After a while you are not more
than a shadow that holds a cigarette
between your fingers or maybe
some lipsticks that pronounce
incoherent, broken, disjointed words
near the smoke by the ashtray
and you realize that you have
your heart full of nicotine
and you want to leave it
with the cigarette butts.

That's why I don't believe in anything,
not even my pillow,
not even in my father.
If any day I tell you that I believe you,
don't believe me because I don't
even believe in my own reflection.

Don't depend on anyone,
because even if somebody cares a lot,
everybody is busy
trying to save themselves.

You are by yourself,
you need to make your own decisions
and start living your own reality.

People that follow
the dreams of someone else,
are the ones that die each day.

And I wanted to be a cloud,
to be up there in that sky
with closed eyes thinking about you,
in the way you pronounce my name.

Let me see your eyes,
let me see if they also
have the dreams shattered
just like mine.

Not only the lovers' hearts, because here everyone loves, the one that breaks every three pages; it's the tongs, the streets, the glasses, the cheekbones, the fists, the mouths, and mostly, the words.

I hadn't come to the hospital since the last overdose of a friend that shooted whisky in his veins, in the bathroom of an old bar because of a heartbreak. I told the nurse to don't leave me, to be with me the whole time and that if she could light a cigarette for me, sure honey take a smoke, she said and rubbed my head softly like if my dreams where cotton pieces. The body. The night. The blood. Inside my body an invisible, warm hand was digging and took chunks of light and silence. A black hole was opening up through my bones and was filling them with blood and noise. Later a doctor came in and told me that the business was serious, told me to stay still, and asked me what was my blood group, I told him that I knew a little about blood groups, that if he wanted I could talk to him about rock groups, a little bit of Jimi Hendrix Experience, of Cream. No way, the business is serious, sayed the doctor, so I looked at the nurse and I wanted to be with her in a party dancing Spend The Night Together, I wanted to be with a glass of *****, I wanted to give her a kiss in the middle of her white teeth, I wanted to tell her Baby let's get out of here and make love in the beach, I wanted to be in her hands full of trees.

I want to see you again,
Tell me why I can't have you.
I love you and I don't want to lose you.
Invite me to another sunrise,
You make me happy.
Sorry for the expression,
But you are in me, I need you close.
I'm not good without you,
I wish you were here right now,
Things are like this.

The smell of sadness is located in the mouth of the stomach, it's like you're always hungry of something, hungry of light, hungry of streets, hungry of night, hungry of everything, hungry of nothing, hungry of ****; it doesn't leave you alone, it burns and revolves around your stomach, traps all your words and doesn't let them come out.

I'm so confused,
I don't know if to cry,
be mad or sit down to think,
look for you or simply wait.

It seemed you smelled
a little bit like *****,
a little bit like beer,
a little bit like dove,
a little bit like boys don't cry,
a little bit like wednesday morning.

Be it in La Habana or in Rome,
Because we all suffer and laugh
In the same language.

Let me see in your eyes if you have shattered dreams just like mine, come, crash against my flesh, destroy me, cut me into little pieces and take them, throw them away near those trees were we used to see each other when we finished each day, come and touch my ****, touch it, feel it, examine it, finish cracking my white *******, full of sad holes with nicotine and liquor love madness coffee black, I will always be waiting for you near a mirror so you can touch my body from behind from above from every angle with your hands, with your fingers, and my dear I'll always write your name in the mirror while you touch me, while you faint in my blood.

People looked at me with those eyes that said
poor boy, so young, so healthy, so white,
and me from the mattress told them
relax people, I'm not so healthy, so white, so devote,
I don't wash my teeth every morning as you do,
I don't change my socks everyday as you,
I don't read so many books, I don't do sports,
nor work as much as you do,
relax people.

You, Simon, were the boy; Simon was the night full of confusing, broken songs. Simon was having those red lips that spoke love words. Simon was not going to work the next day. Simon was having that horse smell near the liquor glasses. Simon was Boys Don't Cry at twelve p.m. Simon was a night full of rain while they gave the climate report on the radio. Simon was not knowing if it was Saturday or Sunday or Friday or Wednesday or any other day. Simon was staring at your eyes in the middle of those lights. Simon was not giving a ****. Simon was your hands filled with rain, your tooth full of secrets. Simon was saying I want to make love to you on the top of a high hill cultivated with red tomatoes during a summer morning. Simon was your hair sprinkled with sweat and color lights. Simon was my blue shirt and the cigarettes that were in my pocket. Simon was smoking next to you and letting the blue smoke impregnate in your assassin lips, those red lips. Simon was taking a needle and filling it with your slobber, with your scent and shooting it in my head. Simon was robbing a bank or a train in behalf of you, and leaving that name written all over the walls, the rails, the air, the grass. Simon was throwing up in a bathroom all the whiskey, thinking about you. Simon was writing your name with the rain. Simon was dipping a car in gasoline and whiskey and putting it on fire. Simon was being lonely without regrets in the middle of that bar that smelled like *****, like beer, like loneliness. Simon was you walking between the tables spreading a little bit of your name, a little bit of your scent. Simon was your hands full of glasses, full of coins, full of dreams, full of broken words. Simon was knowing that it was past midnight and that outside it was raining but it was hot. Simon was the taste of your mouth, that taste of road. Simon was dreaming about you in a beach full of children, sand and boats. Simon was a Sunday with you at the beach. Simon was taking you and licking your entire name, your entire body, your entire loneliness.

The night smells like gunpowder,
like dynamite with flowers.

And if we see each other
We don't know us,
And if we say hello
It's because of education.
We do we prentend so much
If we love each other?
We could pretend but the
Heart gives the order.

Baby, we got on the roller coaster and everything began spinning. We were dizzy. It was almost 10 o'clock and we had own hands full of cold. It was us two, baby. You and I in the middle of the roller coaster, you and I in a totally insane sunday splashed with darkness. Baby, you and I, broken, fragile, demented. ******* up. With our *** cold. Happy under the rain in the roller coaster. I think you closed your eyes to touch with the tip of your fingers the black sky, the clouds, the rain and then you said that something wasn't going ok in the roller coaster, that it smelled like blood, and I told you to keep calm, that nothing was going on. The night smelled of blood, of wet newspaper, of liquor, of a just-fired pistol. Keep calm baby, I told you, every sunday is the same, but you insisted something was not ok and then you vomited and we look backwards and forewards and we were splashed by drops of blood and rain. Every passenger in the roller coaster had cut their veins and their blood was falling everywhere. Keep calm baby. You kept vomiting. The passengers were looking at the sky, they were with their arms opened and you said, what a nice way to die, keep calm baby, and you added that maybe that people dreamt of touching the sky and the clouds with the tip of their fingers and its better not to *****.

Alfred the world,
Alfred the world is a strange thing,
a warm ball,
a piece of heaven between the tooth
of a piece of day between the legs,
a broken sun between the white tong Alfred,
and I only wanted to clean with
the pink ******* of girls the broken glass of the days,
but in a few minutes the mirror would get ***** again
and everything was the same.

I like this dizziness in this time
when it isn't normal that you are
a little bit drunk,
a little bit sad,
a little bit shattered.

Today I'm an aspirin,
maybe an amphetamine.
And it seems like nothing walks,
the truck doesn't walk.
I feel like jumping into the void,
like cutting my veins with
the sharpness of your breath.

Sometimes we go out
looking for stories,
for people,
or for inspiration.
But we end up
finding ourselves
at the end of the road.

I like to remember all the songs
That you didn't dedicate to me,
To remember what we never had.

I can’t sleep. Sometimes I write when this happens. It used to be from myself to my own sheets of paper, but that has gone wrong too. My mind can only write about you now, I can’t think about something else than yourself.

The paper has become your legs. The words come right out from your red, perfect lips. Sentences build up right from your hips.

Things are never written down as they should, it’s pretty much alike when I try to say “I love you” with my tongue all over your body.

Your eyes remind me that no matter how much or what I write it’s never going to be enough to describe the kind of feelings, the kind of images you bring. I have to write. I feel like I’m not good at it anymore. You, my notebook, you have overwhelmed my capacity of expression.

Not even this words are coming out as they should, right now while I type nonsensly, I think, I wonder, is he ever going to read this how I want him to?


I feel cold every colon, every period. They indicate it’s been long since I died when you kissed me.

A lot of moments,
a couple of situations.
Love from rainstorms,
hooked in trains.
Night of flowers,
kisses and discussions.
And if you don't feel today,
you never felt at all.