slowly drowning in time,
my love.
You were the “one day I could become”
as I remained devoted to the void
and my battles passed before my eyes:
I was destroying my future,
studying the present,
still being written on the same page
that writes my name
through the violence of ink
even as it erases me,
knowing we could never survive
—not even this line.
Oceans of distance dressed in nostalgia,
the fall meaning “everything” beyond “anything”;
there,
a window forged from silver glass,
guarding the inside from the golden tears
falling from her eyes.
out there,
questions wandering through the air;
wondering,
will time forget us when our shore breaks
and what will be forgotten about us?
when two lovers made love in the sea,
reliving the same kiss
born two thousand years ago
long before us,
with the same naked bodies over the sea,
unmoved by the harshness of water and salt
only because both lips will never want
to lose their trace
nor the feeling of one another above the sea;
what is, then, passion if not the same past
unable to stop once the first touch has begun?
Somewhere,
in a river of fresh water,
“the everything” can be tasted,
the honey of your cheeks,
your belly and your skin;
yet, by now,
whatever “by then” means,
clothes will dress us just as time
begins to speak in reverse,
running us away
until we never fully happen:
from my hands to your pubis
hiding your blue or green eyes beneath ash,
in so many different forms of you
that any past could one day
read them and relive them;
until they become brown, like mine,
more radiant than any green and blue flames
and yours would grow more radiant still,
just as they once were,
and so would mine.
Whenever your tongue tastes like strawberries
we would be made of memories and stories
from the garden I once swore to write—us.
There, statues,
with their arrows aimed at you
and me using every woman as a shield;
below, me holding the brush,
drawing her chest,
her hands and her feet,
believing the ocean would be enough
not to feel them against mine;
yet, above,
the abyss continues devouring
everything between us
just as the sea does.
That day, all of yours,
you only had to name us
for all the stars to burn
your doubt to ashes;
and the next,
we could become instead:
the sweetness of salt,
of flesh,
of water,
of stones;
and on the day after the next,
our final day,
we would write our name,
and all storms, rivers, and oceans
will have passed behind us:
knowing we could never survive
—not even this line.