Nilovi - (letter)

To Nilovi

My happiness is a gulf that derives from being out of time, where your figure appears impromptu with the fierce antecedent of so many deaths. Your memory slips by my intention to love you without you being there, and if I do not return to you it is because you like me absence. On the road of narrow streets I saw you in dreams smothered in smiles and your chest swollen as you did when listening to Brahms, I saw you from afar the masterful and grave rhythm of a rain without a storm, I recoiled my steps, agitated and nervous, and I was distressed do not talk to you. You desired me, I knew it when I touched your wire that wanted to kiss my fingers bitten me. And with that soft voice, without wanting to replenish the space or my attention, you covered everything, without pretension, without foolishness. These prolegomena letters of hell that is our common cause, have the belligerence of the one who loves with fire, you melted me with your elusive gaze and the breaking of your lips, but my will does not break with sugar, it is like the attacca of Bruch's concert. Confusing me you walked away with disguised contempt. In the space between uncertainty and waiting my balance was exhausted, until our eyes were attacked with pretense of tenderness, you found me with the deep wealth in the stomach, the foolish courage of the lovers. And I was yours.

Like the rain of anguish and pleasure, that's how it is today. And the humid earth welcomes me, while I write flying to find you in the wind where there is no house, we dance without fear. I see your crazy look crossed by the swirl of hair in that happy storm, when we used to toy our bodies before falling asleep, and I said to you "why do you worry, do you know when you are going to die? No, I've never had a clock," you said. And I never see the clock or the bad intentions, nor did I see an end, when we joyfully sang the sentence of days flavored with long mysterious trips, clutching and embracing the color of the afternoon with mischievous desires we seemed tourists everywhere. Philosophy as epistle of history is woven from thinker to thinker, so we were spinning fantasies of the future. Beethoven is my hero, I listen to him and he lets me delve into the opaque memory. Just as one hundred years ago a warrior shouted from the Bufa, in the green Zacatecas of that time, the struggle that encompassed the century and the geography that captures us, I shout the cultural effervescence of being constituted.

You are a winter, beloved, a winter with the autumn rolled, you look like the May oceanic shine, when I get into you, immersed in the mess of your strangeness you scatter me, even far away, my control succumbs in the longing for an encounter with you; what stubbornness in losing me when you appear with your rogue neck coveted by vampires. I run over in a desert of illusions putting bricks in the past spaces that had no relevance. With you as utopia I will walk, breathing a gulf of dreams on the wings of the birds that are lost at dusk, dying slowly with the sun. And from so much eternal look, we pretended violent, each wanting to despoil the other, looking for a supposed new meaning to the effort to love us, and we said goodbye. Since then I have woven a network of motives so as not to die with the old soul, with my goals achieved. Love is a feast in eternal indigestion that brings its (two) parents with it, without discomfort it is irrelevant. And I will not lose you. I will seek you at the conclusion of each death of mine, because to love you without you being, is immortality.