41- Can you forgive me Muse?

"Tell me " I said as I left through the metal door of the laboratory.

" You sent me a message saying you wanted to talk " he said slowly - let's talk.

"Okay " I said in a bitter tone " let's talk " I sighed.

"Will you forgive me, Musa? "She asked with a soft voice, I walked to sit on one of the benches in front of the library.

" Yes, I forgive you."

" Thanks, wow for a moment I thought you wouldn't do it"

"Well, you see, yes."

"You are one of those people who tell you about moles instead of mistakes, Mia, and that's why I fell in love with you. You can always see the best in me, even when I can't, you are my mirror " There was silence.

"I won't do it again " He told me in a whisper.

" Will you promise me " I asked softly with tears running down my cheeks.

At that moment a leaf fell from the top of a tree while Rocío promised me that she would not fail me like that again.

"Yes, I promise you " I took the sheet that had just fallen to the ground and kept it in my Luis García Montero book.

*I just opened the book and I read:*

*By the detergents and dish soap*

*by the orderly books and broom on the floor,*

*by the clean windows, by the table*

*without papers, notebooks or pens,*

*by the easy chairs without newspapers,*

*whoever approaches my house*

*will find a day*

*that is completely Friday.*

*That is how I find it*

*when I go out into the streets*

*and the cathedral has been*

*taken over by the world of the living*

*and in the supermarket*

*June becomes a bottle of gin,*

*sausages and dessert,*

*fan of light in the kiosk*

*of the flower shop,*

*city that undresses completely Friday.*

*As does my body*

*which recalls the memory of your body*

*and foretells your presence*

*in the restlessness of all it touches,*

*in the remote control for the music,*

*in the paper of the magazine,*

*in the ice melted away*

*just as the morning melts away*

*completely Friday.*

*When the front door opens*

*the icebox divines what my body knew*

*and suggests other titles for this poem:*

*completely you,*

*morning of the return, good love,*

*good company.*

Then I just opened a book by the journalist Gabriel Garcia Márquez and I read other poem, and I read it twice, like if that poem was the last one that we have to give each other.

*Poem:*

*Traveling is leaving home,*

*parting with friends*

*it’s trying to fly;*

*to fly along new routes*

*crossing paths*

*it is trying to change.*

*Traveling is dressing crazy*

*it’s saying “I don’t care”*

*it’s wanting to go back.*

*To return appreciating the small things*

*sipping a drink,*

*it’s wanting to begin.*

*Traveling is feeling like a poet,*

*writing a card,*

*it’s wanting to hug.*

*Embracing in a doorway*

*longing for calm*

*it’s stopping to kiss.*

*Traveling is to become worldly*

*it’s to meet other people*

*it’s to return to the beginning.*

*It’s to start offering a hand,*

*learning from the strong,*

*it’s to feel solitude.*

*The sadness of the sea fits in a glass of water*

*♡*

*There is no woman more alone,*

*more sadly alone,*

*than the one who wants to love a sad man.*

*Piedad Bonnett*

*Sad men,*

*who have a provincial coffee in their eyes,*

*who do not know how to lie,*

*who hide behind newspapers,*

*who remain seated in their chairs*

*when the party dances,*

*who wear out shoes on a rainy afternoon,*

*who greet with fear,*

*who suddenly one night melt,*

*who sing pursued by laughter,*

*who embrace, who pester until they are left alone,*

*who return later to their sadness*

*just like to their handkerchief and their glass of water,*

*who see how their girlfriends and boats move away,*

*those men stained by the last hours*

*of the lost opportunity,*

*are like me.*

Before to leave college and go to my place, I just drink water and think about the purity of my feelings for her, so kind and gentle, always cleaning the damage, as water. And I remember to me in that exactly moment a poem by Garcia Monter, where He talks about water.

Maybe we leave ourselves, but there is almost always a door that is not closed properly…

♡

*When I close the door of my house*

*the steps are usually filled with doubts.*

*It is possible, perhaps*

*the light in the office*

*was left on,*

*I don't know if I turned off the water*

*and it also seems to me*

*that I didn't turn the key twice.*

*It is like when I leave an argument*

*and the elevator is covered with unspoken truths.*

*Decisive answers go with me.*

*Later I feel afraid*

*of those two minutes of exposure.*

*I raised my voice, the others fell silent*

*and the glass broke.*

*It is like when I leave a party*

*and I am overcome with fear*

*that someone has been upset.*

*Did I say goodbye to her? Should I*

*remember him?*

*Did they understand the joke*

*and the double meaning of my words?*

*Has the little lie of Friday afternoon come to light?*

*It's like when I leave myself,*

*after having swum between two waters*

*even in the bathtub.*

*I leave dirty clothes at the foot of the chair,*

*an unmade bed,*

*unwashed dishes,*

*towels on the floor, and in the bathroom*

*a foggy mirror*

*where there is still*

*the skinless nakedness of the impostor*

*who now goes out into the street,*

*and greets the others,*

*and pays attention to whoever calls him by name.*

*Everything is strange and difficult*

*like feeling Luis, like living in the second*

*left of the night,*

*being Spanish or being in love.*

*Maybe we leave ourselves.*

*But there remains a light, an open tap,*

*the shadow of a badly closed door*