Para la instancia de una galleta desboronada
For the instance of a crumbled cookie,
in search of a cold glass of milk, filled almost to the brim.
And in search of simplicity—a simple act of fleeting ecstasy, somewhat dazed by the native voracity of not knowing what it wants.
I want it without quite wanting it.
I wanted it yesterday, with glass slippers and an open mind.
I want it today, with a breakfast kiss, a lunchtime secret, and a wonder before sleep.
I want it tomorrow, well dressed and ready to return to Pepita.
Continuity accepts that it has everything to lose.
It holds no sleepless memories, nor recollections without tears.
It is difficult to understand—and she knows it.
Without prejudice, she makes life impossible for me, yet life without her is impossible.
…And for what?
So that relentless madmen keep writing verses to the wind,
thinking of answers that belong to others,
days of frenzy that will never, ever return…
…like a spoonful of honey…
…like a raspberry tea…
…like a surreal drawing kept in a drawer of memories…
…like a song that was once only yours and now perhaps belongs to someone else…
…like a Saturday concert in Central Park…
…like forgotten photographs that take you back to that day when the future never mattered…
…like opening a bottle of fine vodka for the first time…
…like meeting the first woman who gave you her automatic madness and left you stunned, confused, and forever wounded at heart…
…like searching for untouched spaces to write the big bangs of your generation…
He smiled and cried for everything that never was.
I think of them and wish them the best.
And he continued…
Like someone who does not know whether he moves forward or simply dissolves into the inertia of time,
like someone who drags his feet not out of exhaustion, but out of the habit of staying.
And he continued,
with hands full of moments he never knew how to name,
with pockets torn from holding promises that were never heavy enough.
And he continued,
even as the night spoke to him in languages he no longer remembered,
even as the echo of his own laughter sounded like a farewell.
Because continuing—even without understanding—
feels too much like being alive.
And then he thought
that perhaps it was not her,
nor them,
nor even himself that was the enigma,
but that invisible thread that binds what was to what will never be,
that absurd impulse to search for meaning in a spoonful of honey,
in a raspberry tea,
in a song that changes owners without asking.
And he continued…
not out of hope,
nor out of faith,
but out of that quiet stubbornness of those who once felt too much
and never quite learned how to stop.
