Unlovely,

that seems to sum me up, in a way I did not wish for or expect. Who would want to be less, in his right mind?


The only one true friend of mine is my death, that sour lover that keeps insinuating herself in a million moments, whispering "embrace me, you shall never be good enough, put paid to this charade for once and all".


How I wish I could heed the call, howl one last time as I dissolve into the dreamless slumber of oblivion. To leave the earth in order to become a part of it.


Look at the clouds. Our forebears smile at us from there, their tears nourishing the fertile soil.


One day, that'd be me, only I will not know.

**

I don't know whether you read, or whether (even), you walk the earth at all, alas.

I can't help wondering. Again, I curse my being able to imagine and to have my hands tied.

The only apology I'd accept is for not to having called your friend when you needed him.

And I don't expect much of one, either.

"

Tiredness finally overcame
ravenousness.
For now.

3:40

Another ring added to the bags under my eyes, the bark of untouched wood, a canopy of birds singing your name.

How easy it seems to pass judgement. Asked about my wait, I hear unkind words from those who don't know the first thing about you.

Or me.

Have the sweetest dreams your mind can conjure, my love. Carry them into your waking hours as a sword and shield against a world that cares for the flavour of the week.

And call upon your ally sometime.

Smoke and mirrors.

Into thin air, just like a black magic trick. I'd be tempted to think of a bad mojo, but there isn't.

And I breathe on, I walk with the outward appearance of life.

Did I ever say or act like I expected?

Without insulting the grief of those every Thursday at Plaza de Mayo, that is what happens with unexplained disappearance.

It doesn't heal but with a frank answer.

That is my side of things. What's yours? Have I not shown I listen?

Simple, no need for embellishments.

I know more than you guess, less than I think, but that's inane.

The point is, I'd listen to it all. I can't say I'm not afraid of what might come from your lips, but that it is a fear worth facing.

Because you are.

A year on.

Back here, and now.

The Norman belfry in the town centre and I stare each other in the eye, just like at the end/beginning of each day since I moved to these quarters.

You've never been here. You're everywhere.

The motorway hums and I can see all those trains, borne by their bridges over the valley.

Born and swallowed yet again by tunnels.

Despondent, bereft of you.

(Yes, damn it! You)