I wonder how you have done it, what music have you listened to, what verses accompanied you that night? Have you chosen your poetry over that of others? I imagine you poured yourself a glass of wine, a Malbec perhaps, and took a few puffs, to make the transition less painful.
You must have put on makeup and covered your body, still alive, haughty and throbbing, with a low-cut dress. Perhaps one that accompanied you in happier but not more important moments.

What would be more important to a poet than to orchestrate her own farewell? A postponed tribute, the setting and every detail, every object in its place, like living words. The long-awaited encounter with death. That date that runs out the first and last time.

What did that woman carry that inhabited you? What sadness and misery did she hide, ancestral sure, behind your white gaze?

That second before the common places and the new ones that were opened for you, when you completed each space, each void, each shadow.

How much, how long did the poems take? How much, how much did they drag from you?

Now there is a veil that covers everything, like the fog on a day like today, like the silence that rumbles in me and leaves me deaf.