my love

Women like me flirt in an unviable state of innocence,

Every chance of reconciliation with the human is, for me, the perfect opportunity offered by the great firmament to take out my heart, wash it and give the necessary aid to whatever was gathering dust on its side closest to my insides.

So I take it out and begin to remove the loose threads, the ones that don't let it dissolve into mechanical anguish, into the bitter-tasting tumults that carry with them small invisible ties to hearts, already distant, already buried in other times.

And the golden threads, the metal of the heart, ask to be handled with extreme care precisely because they are merely weak, however strong they may seem; for there the sun shines, ruler of the great universal pulse, the one in which we all fit.

And I take it apart

…and each of its parts expands…

first ash…then a black smoke that levitates toward the stellar unison and, as it rises, rots everything that breathes it…

then I don't understand ,

I don't understand how the skin that surrounded it and held it for, who knows how long since its last bath, didn't rot, nor vomit sadness…

and it's that its flesh is strong, because it turned into leather…so many times groped and returned amid absurd drool that only knew to go quiet when I whispered to them, in the silence: please, if you don't know how to care for it, give it back to me… please- always elegant, always with an unnecessary tenderness- please, give me back my heart.

Thank god, no one threw it at me; they gave it back and most of them said:

«I'm leaving so that you can be happy…» , and I watched them walk away with my smile in their hands.

Then I understood that nothing belongs to us, that anyone can come and tear out one of our bones. Doing justice to what seems unjust is an illusion. Even so, we were given a voice for a reason, and it is to shout against our nature, for it likes to amuse itself with our misfortunes.

Then water floods every shore of that exorbitant organ, capable of pulsing life and, as the bitter liquid runs over its skin, the universe blinks in turn, opening once again the eyes of the new love.

The white eyelashes that light up its innocence no longer sting, no longer hide; they gather courage like the first flower after a senseless winter, and they wrap themselves in the hope of a sweet death, because they know that after this new birth, they will die again.

But they don't mind, that idea seduces them, for each time one loves more strongly, and with less joy the heart suffers even less.