Random notes on the nightstand in this room

 

I know you don't know and you don't go around guessing. That your time is golden and, when accompanied by wind, it disarrays your thoughts. I know you never lose your mind, thinking about the wealth of memories we keep, I know you take your time working on printed circuits, fiddling with tools, taking coins out of your pockets, I know the multimeter takes up your desk, that the soldering iron, along with all the tin, in between playing on the keyboard, makes you uncomfortable, that you have always been tidy, the ideas in the air, the alignments of your mind confuse you, that you suddenly turn around when you hear, without a choice, that music and the energy of tone rises, you go up to the ceiling and down to the floor, clinging to a story of perpetuating the paths carved as they were, organized, that I lifted you from the gap where you found yourself, that the stairs are stairs, even if others say they are not, that you dismantle the radio and the frequency raises you to the chorus, shall we climb the stairs to heaven?

And I, going down the slopes of our past, I know, my dear, tidy, closed, dusty, pretending to be dead, and you, absorbed, go back to the paper, scribble your thoughts on it, another sentence, another idea, but then the phone rings, and you pretend to be dead to it, insist and come back, ruining the moment, that solfeggio that you tore from the chorus, in a falsetto, a shrill chord, and I return to your thoughts, I appear and make wind, I get up and you slowly return, you sit down slowly, now slower and you write on the photograph, without anyone seeing, you increase the diopter without it hurting you from me and you mark on my face the longing for your gaze. And me here, ruminating, making it, sewing, chewing gum, lifting carpets and blankets, hanging clothing machines on the strings, shaking poems and stanzas and structure and elf and wizards, and you close me again, but your eyes follow me at a distance that you take care of your chest, you swear and lie and say you don't feel what you feel. And here, here, to listen to your steps, to narrow you in your arms, crush the photograph, while the day is fine, while the love is in the roca and the spindle, if you will be abroad, the perfect storm that will stop you, that will take you to the same place, where one day, and all the day was, That day that was night and day of the same luck, mere epiphany, northern star, the agony went away, it was only a second, but in this second, I lifted the world and extended my eyes and could see you cry.

And I left you safe, untouchable, in your beliefs and I licked the tears of your disagreements until I felt you calm down. But, on the nightstand, right next to me, your photo shows the same thing from 25 years ago. You were already everything and I, i am an embarrassment, the seaweed that comes from the sea to get in your way in the waves, the weeds of your uncertain steps, as you collapse. And you there, in the world. And I, always waiting, in the intimate sphere of the symphony that only I hear, while I mourn for you, while I silence the words that you ask me to keep quiet, I keep quiet, and I erase what I say, like this, mute like the servant who holds your portrait, saying goodbye to the rest of us, which is the rest of everything I value, tearing memories with my fingers and with words, projecting futures without obstacles, where you are still present, where you are still the one who left, just an absent body, but you stayed and lingered and I had to leave you, I had to tear you away, like this, mute, as you are, so silent, intensely, deep inside me, I who want to free myself, find myself even more hostage to the wall, which I let you build, so I can climb up there and spy on you.