Variations in time (I)

This last time by your side, weighs the same as the inexorable passing of time; full of joys and sorrows, of dreams and awakenings, of sadness as and hopes, disappointments and learnings. And today, irremediably today, I find before the subtle idea that part of me you are and I part of you I am, love. It is not necessary, at all, to scrutinize my vast memory to find an embers of you. Whenever you look at it I can find it in the streets that fork (as Borges would say) of this immense labyrinth of the city, in the vegetables that I deny a corner for my son, bitter, in the rays What is a black book? I hear you speak, with your eyes fixed on mine. Surrounded by miles of eyes, voyeurs, endless voices, shoes, coats, children, watches, hearts: the furious world turning on and around both, waiting for the step we avoid. I hear you speak, then, but not entirely. Because deep down I do not listen to you. Or not all the time. I only measure the variations of your voice, the rhythm ... Hell! that rhythm that got violently into my veins until they reach my organs, poison me, and that's the only reason I know I'm fine, that we're fine at the end of the day ...