Este amor que contamina

Reina entre nosotros una peligrosa relación, hablar contigo es como domar a un jaguar salvaje que espera inquieto en una jaula. Tus palabras son veneno que acaricia mi oído y me tienta, me tienta a seguirte la corriente. Caminar a tu lado es como rodear a una serpiente en medio del desierto y verte hablar con otra persona es como soportar el frío de la Antártida. Vamos caminando en una cuerda floja, fijándonos en cada paso que damos y compitiendo en quien cae primero.

Voces vivas de amistad resuenan entre los espacios que dejamos vacíos como compañeros, mirar esos lentes de marco negro es como apreciar los nubarrones en el cielo y sostenerte la mirada es como navegar en una tormenta en medio del océano. Tu sonrisa es como una luciérnaga que brilla en la mitad de la oscuridad espantando a todos los fantasmas que por allí rondan. Después de todo nuestra relación es como una bombilla que prende y apaga, que se empaña y se aclara.

Estamos en la cima de una montaña que se nubla, en la que ventea y hace frío, una montaña en la que no para de nevar, en la que los picos de hielo caen sin piedad. Estamos en la mitad de una ciudad olvidada, en ruinas, destruida y empolvada. Estamos dentro de un volcán, la lava cerca de los tobillos subiendo una y otra vez. Estamos en la mitad de una guerra, cada quien de su lado, luchando con arcos y flechas, con tanques y bombas. Tratando de vencer en esta relación venenosa, de bajar por fin de la cuerda floja y de salir de este amor que nos encierra, que nos mantiene unidos el uno al otro, tratando de salir de este adictivo amor que contamina.

Swings

Swings, under the edge of night.

Starting to go high.

Carrying those girls to the sky,

up and down and from left to right.

 

The wind hits their cheeks,

and printed on her face a big smile.

One of them jumps,

the other one laughs.

 

Remember when the swings carried you to the sky.

When the wind blew your hair,

while you smiled, pleased.

Showing those dimples on your cheeks.

 

Don’t forget when you use to throw your head back and let your hair touch the floor,

when your friends pushed you forward.

Because I won’t forget, after that big jump,

the ghostly movement of a swing.

Columpios

Taken from: url

The cat with the yarn

The cat with the yarn, the gray cat that only has to worry on catching his little toy. Just look out the window and see him play unaware of the rest of the world, under a spell. I wish I could be like that cat that once existed and accompanied me through my stormy days, without rain, without going backwards. Just focused on his yarn, as if nothing else exists. The spell of the yarn is  nothing he can avoid, unable to look anywhere else than his precious object. Just can’t be away from it, can’t let go even for a minute. That cat doesn’t pay attention to the cars that pass near him, the yarn has rolled into the street and he tries to catch it, until everything for the little cat disappears.

Except for his yarn, the only object he will chase forever. Go on, my little cat! Until time stops you, but I know it never will because there is no obstacle for you. He would go until the end of time, until the stars fall from the sky. I’ll miss that cat, since I gave him the yarn he spent his days near my house playing with. That’s what makes you happy and someday you’ll catch it. Sometimes I see the gray cat with the yarn in my dreams, his whitish ghost playing with the yarn in my living room at nights, I’ll never forget him. His yarn, his entire world.

IMG_0930

Taken from: url

Yarn

Counting sheep

One sheep, for the early morning breeze.

Two sheep, for all the faces we won’t ever know.

Three sheep, for the conversations taking place in the street.

Four sheep, for the spirits dancing between the crowd.

Five sheep, for the things we achieve.

Six sheep, for the things we lose.

Seven sheep, for the family waiting for us at home.

Eight sheep, for the true friends holding our hands.

Nine sheep, for the first smile of a thundering heart in love.

And ten sheep.

Ten sheep for the musicians that make souls sing, for the writers that make hearts break and the avid dreamers who fall but know how to get up again.

And until I get to the last sheep I’ll know that the road hasn’t come to an end and that I’ll have the opportunity to start the count again.

 

Avid

Bad dreams

Bad dreams,

poison in my bloodstreams,

gas in the middle of screams,

shivers carried by silent beams.

 

Bad dreams,

toxic air in my lungs,

bitterness in my tongue,

horrors becoming young.

 

Bad dreams,

howling in the moonlight,

tarnishing white,

with dark knights.

 

Bad dreams,

measured with tears,

hiding gloomy cheers,

playing with the gears,

of my quivering fears.

 

Measure

A sealed envelope

He sits down and looks out his window, drops hit the window frame as it starts to rain. He stares at the mountains and can’t afford his thoughts. On one of the corners of the desk there is an envelope, it’s sealed. He tries to open it but fails, he doesn’t know who’s the sender or how did it ended there on top of his desk. The rest of the afternoon he uses different techniques to open the envelope but after some hours he gives up and tosses it in the trash.

He walks to his bedroom and closes the curtains, on top of his bed there’s a note. When he reads it, he hurries and look through the window. There he sees it, the envelope he couldn’t open drifting through the crowd, carried by the wind. He runs all the way down his buildings, under the rain and through the avenue. The envelope continues escaping from his hands until it’s out of reach, within each minute, there are more drops on it. A sad smile on his face, whispering goodbye and trying to explain himself why did that envelope had appeared and why was it finally gone. He would have to wait for the rain to ease, for his sunny days, beautiful prairies and dreamy sunrises to return timely inside a sealed envelope.

 

Timely

A runaway train

She used to travel by train every day, her days are busy and the train is the only moment she has to close her eyes. Sometimes she thought about taking a few days or going on vacation. No. It will not help her career. Trying to win a bet on time, she closed her eyes, not wanting to look how she approached to her stop. She never looked around, she thoughts that if she did, it will be a waste of time. Staying here in reality while time passes and laughs in front of her.

It all happened one of those normal days, ten minutes after she had close her eyes she heard the train’s wheels grinding just before a big din. Nothing else. Everything was quiet. For the first time since she used to travel in that train, she opened her eyes and looked out the window, speed, disaster, dust, snow. She shouted but no one could hear her, the train wasn’t going to stop. She smiled. Passing in front of her eyes, carrying wagons of memories. She was convicted to travel in that runaway train and it doesn’t matter how much she wanted it, how many things she tried on order to do it, she could never stop it.

She really needed those vacations, maybe a pause, a little jump in front of that train.

tren

Taken from: url

Sorry for the wait, school has been very demanding lately and my writing has been stored in a drawer. The next week I’ll try to write and update more ❤

Pause

¿Por qué esas lágrimas púrpura?

¿A qué se deben esas lágrimas púrpura?

Si tú lo tienes todo.

Existen personas que están peor que tú y no lloran nunca.

Detén esas gotas que se deslizan fuera de tus ojos.

 

Seca tus mejillas,

arregla tu maquillaje que se ha corrido,

ajústate el suéter y deja de mirar atrás.

No mereces llorar.

 

¿Por qué lloras, si eres perfecta?

Una situación como esta,

no merece que desgastes tus ojos llorando así,

como pintura púrpura que oscurece un paisaje blanco.

 

¿Sigues llorando?

Mira hacia el frente.

En algún momento,

esas lágrimas púrpura dejarán de caer.

cf9b1-dibujolagrima

Tomado de: url

Purple

Quién

Para ese pianista que no conozco.

¿Quién es el que hace cantar el piano al anochecer? El que con sus alegres melodías mejora mis tardes. ¿Quién es ese al que escucho tocar? El que con sus escalas pentatónicas aleja mi soledad, el que me hace compañía desde lejos, el que llena mis días de inspiración. ¿Será el de los ojos azules? O, ¿el de sonrisa brillante? Sus notas musicales tocan mi ventana y dejo atrás la monotonía de la rutina, no puedo olvidar la magia en sus interpretaciones. ¿Quién es ese que no me deja sola de noche? Quien sin conocerme, no me abandona cuando todas las luces se han apagado, ese que sólo conozco mediante la música, ese cuyo rostro no puedo ver.

Ingenioso e impresionante. Siempre recogiendo mis lágrimas con el trinar del piano, Va en crescendo su sonido cuando toca las teclas iluminado por la luz de las estrellas, sus dedos golpetean como el granizo cayendo en la ventana en medio del crepúsculo. La clave de SOL no logra definir todo lo que escucho cuando las teclas suben y bajan creando una atmósfera de paz. Dócil y suave. Siempre pienso en quién puede ser el que siempre me hace sonreír con sus ingeniosas técnicas, el único que ha logrado hacerme tararear mientras me pierdo en el pentagrama. Vehemente y apasionado. No dejo de preguntarme acerca del dueño de ese piano que acaricia mis oídos, las notas que llevo dentro de mi mente y la dulce melodía que guardo en el más profundo rincón de mi corazón.

pianista

Tomado de: url