No one talks about the possibility of disappearing. Turning the corner that wife can decide to never come back. Crossing the bridge, the idea decides to molt its shell. A gaze disappears between the brow and the eye. Words disintegrate between your teeth, just like a romantic night…Silence…I never realized that I could disappear because I always opened up my time with round trip tickets, rotating time, there, where you used to be; if it did happen it was on those trips where we would each go our own way, to later reunite. That’s why I didn’t leave for further, I was just going to keep playing foursquare.
I suspect it happens most at borders: you leave a little memory in your headphones, you suffer from forgetfulness, you throw yourself down next to a rheumatic woman and her birthing hips…The heat…The rain…The suitcases in customs. And there, after avoiding it for so long, when I turned around to buy myself volcanic hours you got away from me to the sound of sad songs.
Silence…Here comes the caravan of corrosive nostalgia, dishonest goodbyes, the kiss of cowardice and the great and undeniable vigor of distance.
After we disappear, no one talks about that: about the sunny jealousy, about the selfish silence, about gate 11, about the paper vase, about Alicia Alonso coming back from a nap, about the thorny love, about the last night, about the lunas rotas.
No one talks about that, but today the loss stings at them.