VIII

mmmmmmmmm After mmnThe life seems
mmmmmmmmn the first mmmll quite easy
mmmmmmmm beer all changes mlmm then

mmmmm When you drink mmmmmmmmmm You
mmmmm the second mmmmmlmmm discover that
mmmmm bottle mmmmmllmmm time doesn't stop

mmmmm Then mmmmmmmll Wanderers are only
mmmmm there comes mmmmmll mighty shadowy
mmmmm the third infatuation mmmmmm sights

mmmmm Finally, since I'm mmmmmmmmmm The
mmmmm new, the mmmmmmmlllm dreams return
mmmmm fourth mmmmmmmmll from their places

VII

It's
six o'clock
in the morning

I mlmmmm A child's laugh mm But mmmmmmm My bed is
should to mm sounds gaily mm I don't mmlmmmllm a loyal
be fully awake mmmll free mm want to leave mm guardian

My bedroom, a lmmmmmmlmmmmmmmmllm And today I
white veiled mmmllmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm desire to
cloister mmmmmmmmllmmmmmmmmmmllmmmmlm rest

VI

mmmmmmmmmllm I've been here
mmmmmmmmlmmmll long time
mmmmmmmlmmmmmm ago

mmmmmmmmmll When mmm And
mmmmmmllm to dream mmm being awake
llmm wasn't just enough mmm were simple words

mmmm Now the Reality mmm And I've been
mmmmmmmm covers it mmm put down
mmlmmmmmmmmlll all mmm again

mllllmmmmlmmmmmmll Yet
mmmlmmmmmmmml I actually
mmmlmmmmmmll enjoy this place

V

Flowers are blooming mlllmmmmmmlllllm A delicate ray
outside the mmmmmmmmmmmmmkimllmllm caresses it
window mmmmmmmmm Therefore lllmilllmmmmlllm all
mmmmmmmmlmmm I really appreciate
Such mmmmmmmmmlm being inside mlllmmmmmmm A
a wonderful mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmllm month made
experience is March mmmmmlmmllmm for young lovers

IV

mmmmmj I mmmmmmmmmk Life is beautiful
jjjjjjjjjj am not mmmmmmmllm beyond this
m trying to escape mmmmmllllmm place

m Love has been mmmmmmmmm It's
mml enough until mmmmmmm only that
kkkkk now mmmmmmm they've escaped first

III

Yesterday
mI desired
mmto see hermmmNow
mmmmmmmmmmmI feel
mmmmmmmmmmmmlike being trappedmmmTomorrow
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmI'll miss
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmher being around

II

LifellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllAnd I am
is nothinglllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll a great
but a liellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllliar

Confessions

-Why did you do it?

-I didn’t.

Liar.

-No, it’s true. I didn’t’ do it.

Do you lie again?

-I didn’t do it!

-Easy. We only want to know why you did it.

Go ahead; tell them why you did it. It can’t be worst, now.

-I did not do it!

You know you did it; you only have to confess.

-Come on; everything is against you, do you know it? We know you did it; we know how you did it; we only want to know why.

-I don’t know.

You know it, indeed; we both know.

-I don’t know!

-If you didn’t know it, why doing it? Did he hurt you? We know that he couldn’t. He wasn’t a threat to you. Why did you do it?

Yes, why did you do it?

-I don’t know! I… don’t know.

-Did you hate him?

Did you hate him?

-No, I mean, I don’t know.

-Was it just a lapse?

-…

Reply!

-Did you feel threatened?

How could you?

-…

Respond!

-Did he or any member of his family hurt you sometime?

-…

Coward!

-No, I’m not!

-You are not? What?

-A coward.

-Nobody has said you were a coward. Is that why you did it? To demonstrate your courage?

-I don’t know.

Will you continue with that? Again? Coward!

-I’m not a coward!

Yet, you DID it.

-I didn’t do it.

Then, who did it?

-I don’t know… Shut up! I don’t want to hear you anymore!

-It’s important you do. We need your confession; we need to know why you did it.

-Is it really important why I did it?

-It is for us.

And so for you.

-Stop tormenting me! Stop tormenting me… you hurt me!

Do you remember? He was screaming the same.

-No, no… I don’t remember it.

You do; he was screaming too, just as you do now; but you didn’t stop; moreover, it gave you courage. It was as if his pleadings were feeding you; as if his crying were an incentive for you. That is why you didn’t stop.

-I couldn’t stop.

-Stop? Did you think of doing it?

Why doing it?

-Yes, I thought about it… but it was too late.

-It is never too late.

It is true; actually, you didn’t want to stop.

-No… I did want it, I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t; it was too late.

-Why was it too late? Do you want to tell us?

Go ahead; tell them, tell them that you couldn’t stp because it was delightful to see his face, his suffering. He was receiving what you received. He was paying for the things they did you.

-Liar! I did want to stop! I didn’t like what I was doing. I couldn’t stand it; but, when I thought about it, when I wanted to do it, I wasn’t able to stop.

Because you enjoyed it.

-It’s a lie.

-What is a lie? You wanted to stop it, didn’t you?

-Yes, that is what I wanted. I’m as any other person; I have the same feelings…

No, it isn’t true. Do you remember that woman at the park twelve years ago?

-It was an accident!

-What was an accident?

-The thing with that woman at the park.

-What happened with that woman?

-It was an accident!

No, you wanted to do it. You saw her alone, no one was around, it was only an instant… and you really liked doing it.

-It was an accident!

Are you sure?

-I don’t know…

-Tell us, what happened with that woman?

-It was an accident, I swear it.

-We believe you, but we only want to know about it.

-She died.

“She died”? Don’t make me laugh… you killed her!

-No… she died, I was only by her side…

With a knife in you hand?

-It wasn’t mine!

-A knife? Did you kill her?

-No, it was an accident. I was only walking around; I found the woman lying on the grass, and when I tried to help her I realized she was dead.

Because you killed her.

-Shut up! I didn’t do it!

-And, why you didn’t call the police? You should have called us. It would have been helpful.

-I couldn’t call them.

Of course you couldn’t, since you killed he. How many times did you stab her? Do you remember?

-I didn’t kill her! I tried to help her and my hands got covered with blood. I couldn’t call the police, they would have blamed me.

Indeed.

-Perhaps in the beginning, but if what you are saying is true, they wouldn’t have a reason to accuse you; moreover, if you were only trying to help her, and if you had cooperated with us to catch the murderer, you would have won a reward.

-It’s just that I was afraid.

Of being jailed? Of them knowing the truth? Look where you are now.

-I did not kill her!

Just as you did not kill him?

-I didn’t do it!

-Was he also an accident?

Go ahead, answer the gentlemen’s question.

-No…, maybe… I don’t know…I can’t remember.

Come on, you do; you was doing it yesterday. Do you remember his face?

-I don’t remember it!

I bet you do.

-I DON’T REMEMBER!

He was alone too.

-Yes…, he was.

-Are you talking about him?

-Yes, he was alone.

-Did you do it because he was alone?

-I didn’t do it!

Come on, we both know that you did it. Why to go on with the charade?

-This is not a charade… I just don’t remember.

Do you remember his T-shirt?

-No!

Do you remember his jeans?

-No!

Do you remember his smile?

-He wasn’t smiling...

-Who was smiling? He?

Why… then you remember. It’s true, he wasn’t smiling, he was afraid; although your words, although your efforts to gain his trust, he kept crying. Do you remember?

-I only wanted to help him.

-Why did you want to help him? Was he in danger?

-He was lost. I only tried to bring him back to his family.

No, you were happy because his family wasn’t there. You looked around a couple of times until you discovered that he was all alone, then you did it.

-I didn’t do it! I only was trying to help him.

Killing him?

-I DID NOT KILL HIM!

-Then, why were you by his side when we arrived?

Answer, they are doing you a direct question.

-I only was trying to help him…

Killing him?

-I didn’t want to kill him.

-You are confesing at last, but it is irrelevant. We know you did it, we only want to know why.

-Why…? I don’t know.

You know it.

-NO!

Yes, you know it.

-He was alone, there was no one around. I only tried to help him…

Then he cried, isn’t it?

-Yes, then he cried…

-Why was he crying? Did you do him something?

-No, I don’t, I only wanted to get closer, to ask him about his family, to help him.

Killing him?

-No… it was an accident.

-What did he do to provoke his murder? Was it only because his crying?

-…

It wasn’t his crying. Tell them your motive.

-I don’t know…

You wanted him to stop looking at you, isn’t it?

-…

-Why did you kill him?

-…

-Answer!

Yes, answer… I want to listen to you saying it.

-I didn’t want to kill him.

But you did.

-Why did you kill him?

-He didn’t stop looking at me…

-Did you kill him because of that?

He didn’t stop looking at you.

-Did you kill him because of that?

Yes, you killed him beacuse of that, tell them.

-…

-Did you kill him because of that?

Answer!

-Yes… I killed him because of that.

-Just because he looked at you?

It was enough, Isn’t it?

-…

You couldn’t stand his gaze, that gaze covered with tears; with the white of his eyes coloured red… You hated that gaze; you wanted it to stop… that is why you killed him.

-Did you kill him only because he looked at you?

-…

-Answer!

-…

Do it!

-Yes, that is why I killed him.

-Why?

-Because I have always hated the children’s gaze.

…

I

To exist

requires

too much pain.

The Memory of the Flask.

From the belly of that oval flask, as ages of vintage and sacred oils, an amber mixture dances a dance emerged from the greatest masters’ glorious heads of the will and the contempt. Sanctuary of sorrows, of lights, of deaths… of lives. Just few drops are enough to cry out for the forgotten crying, for the one who left with the evening’s blood, when it covered the beaches of that coast to the east of the sea.
There are no hopes appearing from that little flask’s belly purchased in a bid of the dreams and of the properties of those who did not know how to keep themselves with the open eyes, with the enough strength to cauterize a dagger’s profuse wound called memory.
Who am I to martyrize saints that, involved in their fatuous life’s sins, prefer to uproot their sadness with fickleness? Nobody, that is me, nobody, by name and surname. It is really unimportant to change at this time what has been given to me in front of a cement font and of supposed waters. It is better to be the wind trespassing the open windows’ crevices of a rusty and fetid pavilion of the old classrooms that protect the wanderers. It is better to be the stream that washes a lady’s feet emaciated because of her fleeing, looking at her dress ripped up by the assaults of those who walk around looking for a forgiveness in the abysses and in the precipices. It is better to be what I am not, since in order to do that it would be enough to summon the one with the bright smile, the one of the rooted pulpit, the immortal, because she does not know about death but her own craft.
Those men and women that desist when confronting pain; those that abandoned this flask that is sitting on my palms, imploring my caresses when confronting the lack of rescue in their owners’ hands, are the main characters of the fortune that now marks me and follows me; they are who make my story.
But I should not talk about them; they are merely shadows on the streets, lighted by an unwilling street-lamp that undresses its fires on the covered backs of women that walk around with their tied umbrellas, enslaved to their waists. I must talk about the flask and myself, about my life, about my sorrow, about my ghost.
There are stories, legends, myths, fantasies that emerge from the glorious and corrupted bowels of different contents that hesitate on their masters’ pulse. All are beautiful, some are sad, other are melancholic, these are bitter, those are happy, but all of them have something in common, a word that links them and threads them forming a woven mural, depending on the dirty and ingrained feet of the travelers of forgotten baggage. Life and recollections! Memories and customs! To open such contains, ages’ treasures that have left in their pace their inane and charismatic odour, is to turn around over your own footprints so as to reach the bow from where the first arrow has appeared. To survive from such sword without bleeding is a heroes’ feat, an immortal’s feat; yet, to these poor and worldly humans, to this pathetic and forgotten lover, it is to flee from the cloistered existence.
Enough! I have talked enough and I have told just a few.
I opened the narrowed-neck flask, hoping to see appearing, among crafts and spells, an old fairy’s image or a strange goblin, that would swear before the heavens, or before their hells, to make me immortal or just an ill-bred child. Yet it did not, it did not emerge from that abysmal bottom’s bottle the silhouette of a winged being or of an ill-fated entity. Only perfume, only the forgotten essence that a lady showed off some day in the neck, feeling the gallant noise of a lover who passed by her side. One more adornment on an overloaded nature, fearful and shy as the time goes by. It is worthless to say that I was disappointed and left the bottle on the table among vain writings and simple verses, embittered by an attempt to emulate what one day was shaped. There the bottle remained, with its broad form in the abysm, pleasant and thin in the top, as if it was trying to tell me that in order to reach the dictated fierceness’s abysms, one just has to arrive, there is sufficient space. But, at the same time, in order to reach the limits that the angels and archangels, virgins and saints, protect, one has to exert oneself instead of choosing an easy life.
Alas, those angels doodled on the cathedrals’ vaults, with their narrow smiles and their curls tightening the winds’ caresses! Alas, those archangels with their sheathed swords, fierce warriors and guardians, offensive and defensive, who will lend their arms immediately before everything ends with a second coming! Alas, those uncovered-bosom’s virgins inviting us to be pure in the middle of the heaven’s fierce agony! Alas, those saints of accumulated names in the calendar are always disposed to arrive when they are called to the duel! None of them has felt the life, since in order to acquire their services and occupations, it was only one more step to climb and then to exist; life is nothing else but an irony placed on a chessboard. All of them were happy because they had as a certainty their lack of suffering.
I could imagine those mythical beings greeting with the palm of their open right hand; holding unknown bodies; pleading that their lives were not natural but acquired, that anybody can obtain it, but only if their souls are disposed to. Disposed to? Bah, in dispositions the world succumbs in front of their adorations. Those who have never felt their chests trembling at the vision of their lovers’ image discovering their own bodies among caresses and blind sights must open their arms and be disposed. That who has seen the dawn as something generous and faithful, without thinking that it is the farthest moment before the new farewell, must laugh. Every being that has never spread blood in form of pearly drops before the last bed that will hold its lover, a bed that only admits an alone character, must be happy. Coin tosses, dices, cards… whatever… The Fortune! We call these modern times the age of the lights. Lights that go beyond the bright of a diurnal star, which walk with its golden cloak, with its provincial entourage following a festive cortège that will end at the sepulcher; but it is only an age of darkness, of wise and cultured insolence, where we are happy about knowing that we do not know anything at all. Yes, those angels fluttered before my eyes, but a phantom with body and arms existed behind me.
I turned my sight, shocked, sceptical, frightened. Conscience has a weak point and it is precisely its pride of knowing itself a knowing being. There she was, just as I had seen her in the bed of marble and stone. With her white dress, she never wore other; with her golden necklace holding my silver ring around her neck; with her earrings; with her sandals instead of her stiletto heel, which gave her, by merely dignity, the gift of the height and of pride. If only she had known that she possessed the perfect stature to reach the truth of my heartbeats, she would not prefer those needles that intimidated the wild flowers at the hill; but I never told her anything about it, there was never an opportunity to think about the future. What is the Future? It is the possibility of going on with the pantomime.
Her hair, scratched by a butterfly comb, danced with the whisper’s specter that held itself absorbed and with its mouth sealed. A golden breeze; filaments of a virgin and her dresses. Her eyes were exactly as I had known them, but they were closed, even so I believed them opened, looking at me… loving me. She was completely herself, she was everything she had been, at least what I remembered she had been.
She did not open her lips or her eyes; she approached to my body, just a few steps, just a proud smile of distance. She walked blindly, but she did not stumble on my adult life’s toys; there were no more swords, only paint-brushes; there were no more wooden horses, only chairs and rickety old beds; there were no more scattered illusions on the floor, disposed in a chaotic order, ready to be chosen in the needed moment, now there was only a black-legged spider with its eyes covered by penumbra which crossed my hopes’ emptiness.
Startled, the fear mixed with eagerness produces a strange mixture, I raised myself from the chair that contained my body from my waist to the beginning of my dreams. I staggered, I was almost about to caress the floor with my entire body and with my white and sick head. Yet, I did not fall; my eyes reached her face’s closed eye-sockets, looking frightened the opposite wall to her back. There was no body, but figure indeed; she was not tangible, yet she was there. I started to desire her sight’s curse, game of witchcraft and spells that transforms the peace in free will, in suspicious choices that battle against the happy and playful Fates, with their skinny hands, holding an old scissor of silver and obsidian. She did not open her eyes, but she stopped herself before me, as if my raising were a command that forced her feet and her legs.
There was no sign of wrinkles, loyal bearers of the years, on her face; it was exactly as I had remembered it, if to the memory is bestowed some credulity.
There was a competition between her face and her dress. An affable struggle to rule over the whiteness. Her dress was sliding on her back, on her bosom and on her waist, falling on vague slopes until it caressed her sandals, coveting the peace of her figure, of her cheeks, in other times filled with tenderness and fire, of her forehead, a guardian of stories that were never told. Why did I have to be the one who broke such a sublime commandment? I want to believe that it was the Solitude who compelled me to reveal everything that was relied on me one day.
With her eyes closed, I do not know what I would do if she had spread them on me, she extended her arm to touch my chest, right before my heartbeats, and she stopped exactly where the senses demand to know the difference between the reality and the dreams. As an answer, I extended my arms, opening their hands, trying to reach her head and to caress her skin, trying to steal a few of reality from the dream’s intoxication.
She made the first movement… there were no sensations. Only the wind knows what it is to caress without crying out for attentions.
She was there! I swear it on my soul. An oath, if you want it. She was there!
Her hand, commanded by an instinct of preservation, went to the bottle, to that open flask, which inundated her conscience with melancholic fragrances.
She wanted to disappear, to cover herself with oblivion, to abandon me again! No, I would not allow it!
I turned to the table and hold, with a drastic movement, the flask that paled in my hands. My attempt was a success. She did not reach it, and she will never do it.
Then she opened her eyes for the last time, and from her lips, with a voice that was only a remembrance of what it used to be, emerged a question: why?
The recollections talk, the memories sing, but the longings cry and moan.
There was no answer to her question, and it will never exist as long as the vital substance keeps emerging from this flask, a mixture that restrains the Death from my life, from her presence, from the one who departed in Her arms, fatuous moon!, from the one who dared to return to my hands.
The phantom continues in this place, with her golden and variable hair, standing before the open flask as long as my will decides to keep it in that way.
Why?

Black Porcelain

She cries out for revenge,
The crystal doll
Cries out for the fixing of a crack,
But she does not know who has done it;
She was sleeping when her skin
Of porcelain was split.

A tear sprang up
From that crack;
It came up, flying through her hair
Just to stop in front of a black spider
Who was contemplating the spring
That emanated sorrow.

She opened her eyes,
She closed her little and tender
Hands to her checks,
She felt the lack of liveliness,
She felt a wound nearly opened.

Who has done this? She asked.
Who has dared to do this? She asked again.

A traveler of long leagues
And of short shoes stopped his walking
When he heard the crying of the
Doll.

Child, child, he said,
I do not know who has done this,
But I assure you that it has been somebody.
Try to see and hear,
Try to perceive and hate,
And then, perhaps, the wound
Will disappear from your sweet face.

The doll listened to the traveler’s voice
And saw with suspicion to that who in this way
Had talked to her. She started with the spider
Who remained by her side.

It has been you, she said,
It has been you who in the search
For bigger delicacies has broken
My skin to revenge
The colour of your aspect.

No, she said,
I am not guilty, but indeed
I envy your face,
The whiteness of your skin,
The smoothness of your stature.
I would never dare to do that,
I would never do it. In love
I have died more than one time
Between your hair, all in dreams,
All in illusions. In love
I have lived in your dresses,
And you were just sleeping.

The doll distrusted,
She felt the pain provoked by
That crack, she felt
The wrinkles of the broken porcelain,
She thought that she was guilty.

She thought of squashing her
With a single hit, of finishing her life
And, thus, she would get revenge.
But no, she did not know if she had
Done it, if she was truly guilty.

Come, she said, come tiny spider,
Never more in dreams you will remain
Among my hair or my dresses;
The reality is sweeter, it is more
Valuable than any of your fantasies
That in your life you have created.
Come, come little spider;
Love me while you are alive.

The spider doubted an instant,
Such is the reaction to
Sudden changes.
She saw her one time,
Two,
Three,
Four.
Finally, convinced,
She got closer to the doll
Who held her in her hands.

Never a dream has been
Compared with the reality;
Because the former always
Exceeds in details,
And the latter lacks
Mysteries.

The spider smiled
When she obtained what she had
Always desired; the doll looked at her
With reluctance, she hated her not because
Of her dreams, not because of her gaining,
But because of the wound that reflected
The sights in her face.

Go, go away, said the doll,
I do not need you anymore.
You have had what you wanted,
You have had your illusion,
I have sown it,
I have watered it,
Now it only remains to mow it
Just when it has bloomed.

The spider looked at her in confusion,
She did not understand her words,
Her sudden fury,
Her decision.

Go, go away now, she said.

Why? Asked the spider.

Do you love me? Answered the doll.

Yes, I do. Said the first.

That is what I needed.
Said the second.
You cannot destroy something
That was not well rooted.
I have built, I have constructed,
Now I obliterate.
The emptiness you feel,
Although it is not the same
As that I have,
Pleases me.

And she turned her head.

Since then, the doll has kept
Following her revenge.
All the beings around her,
Of any kind, have loved her,
And then they have suffered for
Her absence.

But she is not happy,
Actually she did not ask for it.
Sorrow is only paid by sorrow.
A tear that needs to feel accompanied.
And, meanwhile the doll tries to
Cure her wound,
A scratch appears on her white
Cheeks, on her pale forehead,
On her rosemary eyes.

-----------------------------------------------------

A crow appeared one day,
He was returning from his flight.
He had his wings covered with soot
Because he has mixed himself with the world
In order to know its principles.

When he arrived, he looked around
Trying to find the doll.
Time ago they were lovers,
A perpetual eclipse
That never wanted to be eternal.
When he left, he swore to love her
Forever, and she did the same.

He saw her sitting on her place,
With her face drowned in tears,
With her cheeks and her forehead and her eyes
Covered by thousands of threads,
Colour of pearls.

I am here, he said.

She looked at him with empty eyes;
Her lips were almost static,
But her heart, covered with
Annoyance and hate,
Shook itself for one moment.

I am here, he repeated.

She lowered her sight,
She did not want to see him.

What is wrong? He asked.

Why are you here? She said.

I promised to, he said,
I promised to be always by your side,
Now I am fulfilling it.

Go away, she muttered, go away, I have changed.
The one you loved once
Does not exist anymore. You are dead to me,
I have killed you.

The crow put down his breadth,
His black wings rested
On her black back. He sat down
By her side, he tried to take her face,
But she stopped him.

It is late, she repeated,
It is too late. Go away.

He was confused.

What has happened? He thought.

What has happened? He asked.

Finally, she raised her eyes,
A thin liquid membrane
Covered her dry sight.

Everything has happened. She answered.

And she lowered her eyes.

He noticed the scratches
On her face,
Each one, different from the others, belonged to
Each being that had been with her,
As if they were memories disposed
To remain forever.

I understand, he said.

You do not understand anything at all, she retorted.
You went away. You left me alone.
It has been a long time
Since the last time.
Go away. You have died to me.

He got closer
And hold with his wings
The doll’s hair;
A handful uncovered her skin.

I am not dead, he said.
I cannot believe you.

You are! She shouted.
You are dead to me,
There is nothing inside me,
But a distant beating,
Almost to disappear.

Is it because of me? Asked the black.

She moved away her face
From the wings of the crow.
She looked how her hair
Was falling down in little
Strands of pine.

Is it because of me? Asked the black. Again.

Yes. She whispered.

The crow smiled for an instant.
She raised her sight and only saw
That smile. A drop ran
On her cheeks. The spider had gone.

Go away. She asked.

I will not do it, whispered the crow
In her ear.

She moved him away.
His voice, so close,
Was too violent,
Too known,
Too loved.

Go away, she begged.

Is that what you want? He asked.

Yes. She said.

I cannot do it, he implored.
I do not want to do it. I do not want
To go away. I am here because of you.
I am here because of us.
I do not know what has happened,
And I do not ask for excuses
Nor explanations.
I am here because of you,
I am here because of us.

I have changed, said the doll.

You are the same that I knew, said the crow.
You are the same that I love.

I have been loved by many
Since then, she said.

And, have you loved them? Asked.

No, I have not, she answered. You are the only one.

And yet, he said, do you want me to go away?

Yes, she implored. Please, go away.

No, he cawed. I will never do it.
I need you. Forever.
It does not care what you have done.
I do not care and I do not want to listen it.
I only want to be with you.
Allow me to stay with you.

Do you, although everything that had happened?
She looked at him.

I do not care, he looked at her.

Two smiles appeared,
But only one remained.

I cannot accept you, whispered the porcelain.
I have changed. I am not anymore the one you loved.
I cannot love anymore, I cannot like anymore.
I will only hurt you.

Give me that option, said the feathers.

She raised her eyes.
The scratches on her skin
Showed themselves deeper,
Disturbing, testifying.

I do not want to hurt you. She whispered.
Go away. I do not want to hurt you.

And, what about if I do not want to? He implored.

You will hurt me. She finished.

The crow lowered his beak.
His eyes were looking at her,
But they did not feel her.

She observed the floor.
She felt every scratch on her face.
She felt all the memories
That they represented.
It was too much.

-------------------------------------------

He did not want to hurt her.

-------------------------------------------

An attic,
Some spread clothes,
Porcelain’s dust,
A black gargoyle shaped
As a crow.

------------------------------------------

There will be never more essence of coconut.

Paradox

Death?
Life?
What is the difference anyway?

I do not want to die,
But, actually, I really do not care;
Deads live forever in their friend’s
Memory; yet, the memory
Of the livings perpetuates
A last breath,
A last sorrow,
A last heart beat…

The loved dead lives forever…

On the other hand, I have existed
Since the beginning of the time,
I mean my time, I have hated
Everything, my friends,
My feelings, my lack of feelings,
The people, their sights,
Their whispers,
Their laughs,
Their touch…

I have no life;
However, I am not dead,
I breath,
I walk,
I love (kind of),
I hear,
I write,
I exist…
Is it enough?
No, it has been never enough.

What do I pretend?
Nothing. I am nobody.
I am nothing.

So far, it has been three times,
Not two, not anymore.
She does not know it,
And she does not figure it out.
I tried to escape without a clue,
Without witnesses,
Without scars,
Just silence and darkness,
Peaceful emptiness.
And I failed,
one more time I have failed.

Tomorrow she will know all about it,
And I will know almost everything
About It.
Do I want it?
No.
We need it.
She wants to be free,
To confess her pain,
To stand by my side,
To believe in me.
I need to be free,
To feel no more,
To hope no more,
To disappear from this laxity
Of misunderstandings that
I call existence.

Tomorrow I will be no more…
At least, that is what I am looking forward…