Calor

It's hot every night. Laying flat on our bed I see the ceiling fan, behind it, those nasty humidity stains someday I'll fix. I turn around thinking the heat has stopped even for a second, and there it is, your bike. I'm keeping it in the apartment until I can take it to your mother's house, little by little I detach from everything that's yours. The other things, I'm throwing out the window, see them fall one by one. They don't bleed, you know?. With them, I get rid of my anger. The distance and your silence is dimming the remaining flame left on my soul. I hope you're happy, me... It's hot every night.

(Escrito en una tibia noche de agosto 2002)