Long days are a hundred years old

The sheets swirled between his fingers, but his eyes were still closed. Kissing your lips, touching my skin to yours, was the dream come true, and to open my eyelids would be to be faced with the probability of the real of your absence. And what was the real without you, if not my worst nightmare? Your knees were still there and my leg between yours and life was pushing itself to other immemorial times, where the nightmare had no place. I rented this studio in the ethereal regions where, agreed, you compose, through inspiration, the music that makes me vibrate and feel all the emotions of the gods. The chords that come out of your fingers lead me to the apogee of a profane and sacred space, where duality gains the connotation of satisfaction and pleasure, of joy and completeness and even of the strangeness that I found in time, which dared to be scheduled, without you by my side. Long days are twenty-five years old, of silence and impotence, injustice and mercy. With my pain, the gods gone mad. Between your name and mine, not a comma, not an apostrophe, nothing, nothing, just your warm, sweet breath and your uneven eyes. The symphony I heard was composed of harmonic sounds and papudo angels who smiled as they lost feathers, blushing at our advances of pleasure. And you are the name of all the stars, of all the streets, of all the places inhabited by men in a hurry, running in opposite directions, and your intelligence is the distant galaxy where I have taken refuge. You awakened the summer in my skin that had died in your distance and Venus runs, joyful, recreating fountains and murmuring rivers, stripping away malice and whispers, incinerating time with your fingers that go up and down scales and are satisfied in creation. Creation, my love, the sugarcane fields, the forests in delirium and restless souls, the smolderings and rosemary, the heather and the cypresses stir, between smiles and laughter, among the branches of the trees and the song of the birds that trill, accompanying your soils in crescendo until the apotheosis. And the scorching passion of your chords, E, G sharp and you and you return to the murmur of C minor and my chest trembles, the sun remains and the upheavals of time exalt the pause between the music and the ablation of your eyes, your lips, your hands, your whole being in my life. Return to Ithaca, without fear and under scrutiny. And I already see my enemies misaligned, demoralized, without ground, stones or swords that can defend them from their insignificance. 

The oracles closed. The prophecies continue to reveal the folly of all those who, out of harm and bad faith, asked for my head. And in Basel, Herodias stands out among the immense Judas who segregated among the battlement aisles. I return to the studio and promise you that when you bury me, I will descend intact and it will be like this, stripped of ornaments and costumes, that I will return to you. Whole, the same, eternal, from the first moment, from the first life in which I met you.