Every corner in this city has your name.
It is not the simple act of walking through it, fastened to your arm.
It is everything that I try to forget
and clings to each gray piece of concrete.
A city ate by dregs and sadness, pigmented with endless memories
-which I build and destroy-
Where our smiling faces are drawn in the pedestrian crossings.
It is not the routine of frequenting the places where we existed,
where each footprint is recognized by the streets,
the same labyrinthine roads without a precise end.
It is to inquire into all the roofs of those many buildings
that flood this urban space
where we discovered our true faces
-Where we felt our true skin, the one that coexists
under this soft and fragile epidermis disguise-
It is not the depraved habit of walking looking at the sky,
guessing the blind steps of the lane.
It is to open your mouth and let out a sigh for all the hours that fled from us,
lying (naked) next to each other,
on that piece of cement that some underestimate as a roof.
And as unique eyewitnesses, the immensity of the sky and the absorbed looks of the pedestrians, who did not understand (how could they?)
The neat melody that our bodies sang.
