41- Can you forgive me Muse?
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