Almost

I wonder if you think of me.
I don't expect you to miss me,
but do you remember me?

You have ruined the trees for me,
cause they whisper I could have climbed them with you.

I've got rid of your memories,
your bite mark, your aroma on my sheets,
the drawings I made for you, and the picture of your cat.
But my Sunday sunrises feel colder,
and I wonder... do you think of me?

I'm laying on the open all we did, the places we went,
the city with your name,
I hid your picture in a book I'll never read,
to purge my mind and body of your flavor.
And when I think I'm almost done,
a tree whispers, a whale sings, or a popcorn falls from my neck.

I want to remember with a smile,
that you could dance without music,
that you'll flip me around in any street corner
and you almost made me like cats. Almost.

I can't help but wonder,
did I made the same impression?
Did I leave a little mark?
Had I some sort of meaning in your life?

Maybe I didn't bite hard enough,
or scratch deep enough.
Maybe i was too familiar and comfortable.
We both knew I wouldn't last forever,
but it felt forever while it last.

Is there any color that will bring me to your mind?
An author or an animal? Any aroma, any song?

There are not regrets in the short term,
cause intensity was worth while.
No sadness on the risks, or the fall,
cause the thrill of the ride.

One thing will be remorseful though,
if I was not specific enough,
not vibrant enough for you to remember me for my details,
it'll mean you didn't know me at all,
and that will be my fault.

Epilogos

Nunca leo los prólogos, porque me gustan las sorpresas.
No leo recomendaciones, porque no quiero falsas expectativas.
Tampoco leo instrucciones, porque me gusta la adrenalina.

He sido cuentos cortos, poemas mediocres
y haikús tan abstractos que pecan de etereos.

He sido fruto de una imaginación constante y curiosa
Protagonista de comienzos y tramas sin desenlace.
Escritos por un autor sin constancia.
Comienzos y premisas mágicas que se disuelven en el primer capítulo.

Pero esta vez, la trama siguió
avanzó y tomó impulso.
Pensé que porfín la mano que escribía
había encontrado su rumbo.
Llegamos hasta el climax y luego...
se le agotaron las ideas, o la fuerza.

Hoy por primera vez, soy epílogo.
Debilmente pero explica que los personajes
cayeron en silencios que no se llenaron de caricias.
Que el héroe no pudo dejar su pasado,
y ella no tuvo el valor de esperarlo.
Que no hay moraleja, ni metáfora.
Que las historias simples son díficiles de escribir.

Y por fín entendí que aunque no me gusten, son necesarios.
Hoy, soy epílogo.