Grief needs a corpse

 I wanted to say goodbye to you, but I can only get one until now, even if it comes, at the request of the angels who love me, with the character of never again, you know? Just don't tell me, please. I ask you never to use such a word. 

I can only think of darkness to overtake you. To become something that doesn't feel, that is absent from itself, so that it doesn't hurt. And you, who have your pains, can only understand them by reason of your experience. I don't believe you realize, maybe others like me, who live what I live, can understand. Or maybe not. I hear the experts talk about self-love. I don't need it because I have love for myself, my problem is not the feelings I feed myself with, but what I have left of you. I went to the river because it tells me about you. We both cried, him and I. I know it sounds silly to tell you that the river misses you. But he misses you in me. I left the river, still the daylight promised sunshine. The years always start with the seconds, and then the minutes drag on until the hours and, before you know it, you have changed the year or it has changed for you, but nothing has changed from what I feel and I have not been able, again, to forget you, to leave you, as you have done! 

How did you do it? There was no feedback. There was feedback. Ran away. You closed so many doors and I was always trying to get in through the windows, forcing myself, not understanding anything else. The principle of unlove can begin here. You who were the beginning and rush to be the end, you who find no other equal, you who differ from others, you who could be another, but no. 

You were like Neruda's dragged ships, like Leminsky's pain, like Sofia's gardens, you who don't leave my mirror, where I covered my image with yours, theirs. You are among them, though you are more alive than they are. Come to think of it, maybe you're dead, and I can't identify the lack of life, or your turning away. 

I've been thinking a lot, which is like saying un-thought, or the desperation of wanting to silence the thought and not knowing how to do it. I heard them say it was an obsession. Am I obsessed with you? And dreams and visions occur to me, and maybe that's the beginning of madness. Or the rapture. Or the fall. 

I find myself, so many years later, in the pain that I should have allowed myself to experience then, when you left, not now! Why do I need more pain that life hasn't brought me in spades? But, I only admit to myself that it may well be a late mourning and I only allow myself now, because look, only now have I saved time, a time obliged and sponsored against me, to be able to mourn your loss. Cloistered since 2021.

 I killed someone, apparently. But it wasn't me, and I know that because it still hurts! I lost you so long ago! Why cry to you now, don't you want to tell me? Because I have tears and tissues, I have pockets to store them and walls to hide these flows. 

I fucking miss you! I miss you so much. And if I have the desire to go see you, to look at you, to freeze time looking at you, as if you were a mannequin in a shop window and I didn't have to pay with my heart for the pain of looking at you without touching. No touch. No knowledge. No authorization. Without. Without you. 

Today is the first day of this year eight. I did a lot of things today, but I stopped in the middle of them all to close my eyes and be strong. And forget about you. And forgive myself for not being able to. In last year's goal notebook, I had to force myself to write. I need to forget it. Maybe talking about you is one way. Exhausting the subject, the time, dying of tiredness. Not even sleeping pills are allowed to take care of a senior who is stronger than me,  Who insists on listening to the President of the Republic speaking to the nation, the debates and altercations between members of the right and the left, the tsunamis and the stars that have died.

The volcano on Jupiter's moon. And me with that? None of this hurts me, it's my daily bread. You are the one who pains me, for the coldness and indifference, for the notion that you are fleeing, for the gigantic pain of the night, for the collapse of the dream. You are the dream, you are still the dream, you will remain like a star on my horizon. I find myself in these tight hours, in a duel between two parts of me, both love you and both try to find consensus to stop hurting me. 

 The heart no longer has a remedy. Keep imagining yourself! How can it? That's what part of my brain asks, because the other part doesn't ask anything, the other part just tells me: either you accept or you go to the address, you know which one. Or accepted. It was his decision. It was, I know it was. I know that you were the one who decided the course of your life. I don't like your choices, but I don't have to.

I am not your mother, nor your sister, nor your daughter, nor your anything. That's the result of the duel, I always lose. You can't win in love. Love, Amy sang, is a game where you always lose. If it's not you, it's the other. You're the one who lost. Slobber and snot cry, blow yourself and make you a woman. Ball forward. But you should know that for the blind, the days always have the same color. I go into the night slowly, first to hear chords, but I've been insisting on mixing casts, movies with alternative arguments,

 I never know when the eyes close and the body gives up the daily struggle, but I do know that it is somewhere between dawn and day, between a nocturnal truth and an illusion dragged to another day, year, planet. You left and all of you remained. How can you be complete? If you are so much in me, here, even in this isolated moment in which I write to you, how can you be, be, remain anywhere else? 

 I hear them talk about my condition, about my arrogance for the limits imposed, I hear them laugh at my pains, but it is nothing more than an intermittent flash of the paths I make daily to you. And I even laugh with them, because you see, she's me, she could be thinking and doing a thousand things, but instead, she's suffering rejection and even so, she doesn't shut up. On the contrary, it betrays it. As if it were good news to sell newscasts or pink newspapers or magazines. 

And I laugh even more at my tears because they are real, they could be fake, pepper spray effects. No!