Letter to the lost one

"Is it perfume from a dress
that makes me so digress?"
Probably....

I had promessed myself that you were nothing.
I must excuse myself, I am a simple girl. I can't stop the tears thinking of our distance brings. You are away and lost.
You were not lost to me for her sake. I lost you the moment I met you. It was there, in your eyes, so many years ago. Their humid darkness told me you would leave me, taint me, teach me what blood was like. I am foolish; so very foolish indeed, that my simple desires made me stubborn.
My wish did not prevail . You drained my existance, now reduced to dry, oniric memories. Hope has become the replay of a blissful, treacherous moment. My life turned into hollow dust.
Now, I am nothing.

Rough sketch

"Love is strangely manufactured"
How many times have I said that...
Where are you my love?
under a door?
breaking your neck?
once more?

Yo no recuerdo tanto de su muerte más que el sueño donde se despidio. Me viene a la cabeza ese momento patético de salir de un velorio para ir a la misa de un mes de mi otra abuela; sin embargo lo que más recuerdo es su rostro en el féretro: blanco, arrugado, con esos labios eternamente delineados y dulces. También me corta en la mente (y ahora sé que mentí al decir que recordaba poco) que mi prima encontro a un intento de novio en ese velorio. Por eso, cuando el "Sir" murió, yo no fuí; yo ni iría. Mejor me quedo, sin pretensiones, pensando en su timbre de voz y ese par de ideas que se quedaran por siempre conmigo. No importa lo buenos que son los muffins en la cafetería de Gayosso (y bien lo sé y mi recomendación esta bien fundamentada); mi lugar es como espectador en el teatro del recuerdo de este muerto. Espero mi próximo estelar se retrase un par de años más.

I spy

I spy, I spy, I spy Tonight,

Tonight I spied on him.... I have no shame... but for all I DO have!

And I knew by his printed words and strawberry tinted laugh

that we might get along just fine.

But... he doesn't know!!!

I spied on him, and now I must swallow what I spied.

I wonder if he wonders, when he writes, if I will spy.

If he wonders wether I'm Blue and he is Black.

I smiled with the pictures of flowers that he has.

And I like to imagine the iris is mine.