Old love dies hard, like insurance

 

Perhaps it is necessary, more than goodbyes, to empty out completely. How do we empty ourselves of feelings nurtured and guarded by time? How do you keep love alive when we don't give each other, don't kiss, don't make love? How can it stand the test of time with such size and exclusivity? How, God?

My rationality becomes obsessive, I scrutinize every thought, analyze every sentence that supports what I feel, after it has been transcribed on paper! Only God, only from Him can all this come. My old, smooth belly doesn't reproduce anything but gauze and patience. I am formed of what I nurture for you.  What is the quantity and affective quality that I nurture? No, isn't it for you, can't you see that it's us that I miss? Where am I and will you become? What magic is this to dream of you and take you everywhere, to the kitchen, to the living room, to the shower and to the bed, wherever I go, meet you and take you, unaware of my prostrate silhouette and the lack of my sun laugh! And next to your figure I profile mine, hand in hand, united and forgotten from the envy of the atrophied of lovelessness. A journey that has been lost, that has proved useless to my wishes, but why do I carry you? Why do you accompany me in my social retreats and in my entry into the crowds, why do you follow me, why do I look at you, why do I feel you, why do I love you so much?

These are not answers that I am looking for anymore, I only wish for the annihilation of this absence, I only want myself back whole, me whole, me being an individual with dreams of normal people, without romantic and inadequate dreams! Perhaps, I continue to project myself, like grandmother Bina, into your bond, dreaming of your embrace of Rodrigo, of Faustino, of a friend who has become unknown. I don't know you, but I feel every hair of your hair, every pain, every sigh, every yawn, and every retreat of yours. And so, I refuse to tire my mind, to scrutinize the whys that don't get answers, I don't want any more whys! Acceptance of your ghost. I accept you so that I may not resist you, that you may not persist in me. I'm two, it's us, as long as I hold you captive in my chest! 

I am incomplete, you are a sea prey and I am an observer of your exponents. Of your outbursts! The vertigo, the sweetness, the abyss, the foliage of the trees, the Castle, the sadness of your elderly, the maintenance of austere and heavy agreements, like outdated religions that do not save you, that sink you in erroneous and anachronistic beliefs. And I let myself be, I lull myself in the fantasy of hearing you play, and you play for me, as the sea touches the hulls of the boats that insist on sailing you. I join you in your outbursts and in your joys, which you share with others. I feel like they're mine, but they're not. And that's what I'm trying to tell myself, with the half-hearted goal of regaining self-love. My self-love shows me your eye of every color, your locks of hair, your haste to flee from me, your eternal doubt of who judges me internally. Yes, you judge me and I feel your judgments and I try to appease myself in them. Yes, I am guilty of loving you, yes, I am guilty of denouncing you, that loving is not a secret, nor forbidden, nor fear, nor revolt nor affront! On the contrary, love is courage, confrontation, joy, innocence, and gratitude. I am an old anchor that embroiders algae intertwined with the harbor, which punishes itself with the weight of the still waters. Here I stay, on the edge of your show, in the dressing room of your stage, of your lights and sounds, of your keyboard and on the ropes that the sailors throw in the hope of calm in the aftermath of the storm. Hammocks and heddles, buoys and foam from your waters! Sea of sargassum and kisses that I send you. 

Eternal foam that denounces the fulfillment of the immense that you are in me! Why did you come to wake me up, if I was supposed to keep dreaming?

You suffer less when you sleep. For let sleep come, that I may rest from this abandonment which thou hast destined for me