you live in my hands
and when I speak your name.
I can taste the bitter.
ink.

they say- that there is beauty in simplicity.
and that when the world is breaking down.
the only falling apart you do.
is internal. flames like desire.
and it's never enough to just walk on hot coals.
when the sky is cracked.

with crooked picture frames. dusty sepia.slurish
mementos. is all i have left-
from the time you held my hand while they watched.
I wished I was a superhero that could freeze time.
but your fingers were cold enough.

so now. I re-collect the worlds you whispered.
when you spoke so clearly of life through intoxicated eyes.
and told me that letters would make me famous.

well. here I am. with my hair in my eyes.
sometimes- I want to be simple. instead of weaving
the complexities that I speak with pen and pad.
like this.

this isn't beautiful. so I'll rip myself open
in ways that infant eyes can comprehend. yes.
simply speaking.

[I miss you]


and they tell me that my words are like bullets.
while I'm still carrying you on my back.
willingly- I burn this burden.
and whisper myself to sleep with
a spoken lullaby.












'por lo menos puse seis hacia fuera'

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