I would have liked to have been your love.
But I was your toxic, your damn, your best forgetfulness,
your monster, your mistake, your cursed poet
which they don't even publish in the classified section.
I would have liked to have been your bread and onion, but I was your tasteless cassava,
your stale grapes, the rotten chard in the
bottom of the refrigerator, the tasteless nougat,
the empty cupboard, the tedious Sunday,
the slow suicide of the yeast.
I would have liked to have been your sex
and your madness, your prostitute drinking flesh
the sweet hemlock made of moon and pollen
and of the stinking and pure phylogenesis
and exquisite of all the men that I
They preceded and what they will do to my shadow
and of my name the posthumous wound.
I would have liked to have been your joy,
the dreamed landscape under the virgin plant of yours
feet, old age in your eyes thrown to the voracious
marine horizon, the child who drinks peace
of your breasts, the hand that you look for like a
a light key.
But I was your misfortune, your damn, your infamy.
I would have liked to have left this
world so ungrateful with a kiss from you on the
lips, I will leave knowing your contempt that
It hurts like the death of a child in the blood.
Have you ever loved me or thought you loved me?
like you don't love more than once in your life.
It is not you who I write this poetry to
but to that woman who once
you gave me
You gifted me and I lost. Or you lost me.
Don't know. It's not time for revenge.
It's time for silence and rage
for the lost sky.
I wanted to be the dog's back for
touch me, I wanted to move my tail
and be your bone.