There's more and more wind

 

I recently read in a magazine of letters that those who don't live with love, don't last long; I come to rebel against such a statement, I who have died a thousand times and continue to live the pain of life that does not pass because I have lasted too long and I do not exhale myself, nor did you, when you came to me, show me an expiration date; So, life didn't pass after you, no, what passed was time, with its twists and turns, people and strange events, bizarre, tortures and futility, which life didn't pass after you or I would remember! What happened was the wind and the rain, the spring without flowers, me in the lives of others, and my life in their lives, sometimes in their chests, sometimes they sounded familiar, mostly strange and hungry for dreams, for clues to park bodies that did not belong to me, that I never wanted.

I was far from home, from my home where there was your smell, your arms, even your shadow had more body and more color than life, even when you were late, your smile was my company, even when I closed my eyes, it kept anchoring me. And he remained faithful, more than you, he did. 

and you left and never arrived, a man who forgot the address of his house, and the summer without sea and the garden without flowers, and by imitation, I wanted to forget and smiled, and inside I bled, but I smiled when it was time to smile and it rained when it was time to cry, I have always been a good militant and I have always forced myself to be congruent; Do you think that adjective suits me? more than being happy?

I always knew that it was an unfair exchange, and all those who lived in my country, by your side, disappeared with you, and I never saw them again, on the train that dragged me through the seasons of time, to the point that I believed that I had invented you, you and them, and with such a wealth of detail that it still hurt you to have closed the door,  It still hurt that you had stolen everything from me, all the dreams I only wanted with you.

Know? I gave up everything, but I started with myself, right there, in that house where we would still be, if I hadn't opened the door to that storm that tore you away, and you're not a tree, you could have turned back, I would have opened the door for you, I was your home; To my friends who didn't leave with you, some fell asleep early, like on a train that takes all the windows open at the end of a Saturday, cars full of expectations and empty of people who, absorbed, let their dreams disappear, give them up as if giving up only one day, believing that he can dream them ahead on other days; 

they smoked out the window, I don't really know if they were tired of life, others fell asleep as if a strange gaseous metal poisoned them from the inside and withered their blood and numbed them with amnesia and made them wake up inside a nightmare that was not theirs, just as it happened to me; 

And you in another place, in another station, without knowing it, trapped inside my chest, in my glottis, when I dared to remember the sound of your name in my mouth and I repeated it so many times, as many times as to my father, when he died to me without warning, and I believed that he would repent and go back to say: - daughter, give me a kiss,  I'll be back in another life!; 

I got into these wagons after I saw you leave, that's why I tell you that life didn't pass after you, the years, the months, the weeks, the days, the hours, the minutes and the seconds passed, what passed was the beating of the heart in my chest, the volume of your chest also passed, the longing today is severe and tsunamic waves,  Bursting everything and taking over rooms inside me that even I didn't know, the blackness remained, the nightmare thick and permanent like that of a life sentence, And the seasons and halts passed, the clumsy and coarse words, the somersaults, the confusions, the mistakes, the illusions and in my arms that accompanied the goodbye that my hand never drew, the longing remained like the furrow of rainwater in the desert, of everything having passed through me, everything having given up, everything having burst in a thousand dikes,  a Titanic in a thousand pieces, 

 And you, clinging to the cellar of my eyes, you still don't drown, you submerge to come back later, call me in my long nights and shout a goodbye that I have never heard in your mouth!

Everything has gone up in smoke, everything has imploded, except you who resisted stoically and did not pass and are still a breath of life that I carry in my eyes and that, they who sometimes give up on the windows, and other times still dare to peek without ever seeing the arrival of those who left without return; The curtains undulate, but I finally, without any hypocrisy, give up looking at your wavy, because I've given up on the curtains, the windows, the doors, the houses and the countries where summer stopped coming with the sea, with the lapping of the waves, with the graffiti skies of airplanes and nights loaded with stars and your hair in waves being the last image before turning off the light; 

I realize now that I must have been diverted into the lives of others, through dreams and nightmares that were happening, pregnancies and visions without retrogression and that today, to be honest, they don't tell me anything, only lessons that I keep in one of the corners of the library, there are no trophies, only harpoons, scars, marks and stains of abandonment and carelessness,  there was nothing left because it never became everything, and halves, only halves are insignificant; 

A man wants to be whole, with childhood and everything, with past and future, with pains and with smiles, they cannot be only means, but because they never come to an end, and a soul like me could not have allowed itself to be deceived, because we cannot replace love, because it is eternal and we can only try again after we make sure that it has left and you have never left,  when your body is gone;

Because even ghost you are still the most alive and authentic being that I keep inside and that, no matter how many attempts I make, I don't know how to kill you, not for not trying, but maybe I need to learn the trick, the biggest one, about the art of unloving.