A deja vu. Three pairs of eyes running through the water on the fourth of the month. The clock of oblivion and heat creep into the night. It seems as if nothing has changed, that the teenagers look the same and the month that begins will tell the same story. But a lot has changed. Now the calendar marks another date and the beach isn't lonely.
The white feet advance into the water, followed by the tan. The bodies splash the water while the moon greets them with a red color. They fall into the lake and get up when tranquility disappears. The beer wait next to the wish of being forever young. With the wet clothes stuck the body they make a toast to the present and looking towards the future they hug.
The teens walk until the path vanishes and they trap the night between dances and failings. They laugh continuously and she smiles, realizing how precious the help of two people can be. The fourth of July shines in their rosy cheeks when they jump through the streets of the Windy City.
Their fears fade and their bravery approaches with the tree leaves. They let themselves go and without noticing they are still, thinking about the next adventure.
They celebrate independence, but not America's, but theirs against destiny.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Hands
She doesn't pain her nails black like she used to not have to pretend she didn't believe in the rainbow. Now her delicate fingers end in an innocent pink decided to restore the flowers in the jar.
They hold the colored pens again, moving them without pause but without reason. They spring from the life they thought they had lost in the middle of the dream. They no longer hold Sunday's blanket, but hold the petals from the flowers destroyed by the winter. They freeze without fear, because they don't try to avoid the inevitable and play next to the wind.
Her hands don't hide in the pockets of her jeans, they go out and wave with incertainty but without remorse. They don't get lost between the dark corners of her purse, but they find the way that the color of her lipstick draw. They don't limit themselves to touch the old books in her shelf, but they also grab the novels that talk about new moons.
They hold the colored pens again, moving them without pause but without reason. They spring from the life they thought they had lost in the middle of the dream. They no longer hold Sunday's blanket, but hold the petals from the flowers destroyed by the winter. They freeze without fear, because they don't try to avoid the inevitable and play next to the wind.
Her hands don't hide in the pockets of her jeans, they go out and wave with incertainty but without remorse. They don't get lost between the dark corners of her purse, but they find the way that the color of her lipstick draw. They don't limit themselves to touch the old books in her shelf, but they also grab the novels that talk about new moons.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
End of a chapter
As I turned the page I saw it was in black and white, like it was stuck in the past and couldn't be read anymore. I touched the letters in cursive and read the words until the ink wrote them on my burning heart. Now, with each beat, through my veins flow the words of hellos and goodbyes between hall and walls. I folded the corner of the page when I found the mountains and the hidden wine bottles so I could go back to the nights between flames and stars.
I looked for the little moments between the long verses and I found the reason why my shelf is filled with novels. I discovered presents trapped between forced sentences. I overcame the fear of reading each chapter with the nostalgia of passing years on my shoulders. I read the numerous chapters during a sleepless night and I left the bookmark hidden between the blank pages, to not let some pages prevail more than others.
It wasn't easy, leaving the book on my nightstand and realize that the only pen that was by its side now was more. I realized the rest of the way told in the pages is destined to be written solemnly by my hand, and when the picture with the cap and gown the book is going to be heavier.
I looked for the little moments between the long verses and I found the reason why my shelf is filled with novels. I discovered presents trapped between forced sentences. I overcame the fear of reading each chapter with the nostalgia of passing years on my shoulders. I read the numerous chapters during a sleepless night and I left the bookmark hidden between the blank pages, to not let some pages prevail more than others.
It wasn't easy, leaving the book on my nightstand and realize that the only pen that was by its side now was more. I realized the rest of the way told in the pages is destined to be written solemnly by my hand, and when the picture with the cap and gown the book is going to be heavier.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
We aren't ours
We saw each other like strangers in a garden of roses. Our eyes danced with the smell of spring while our hands touched the thorns. You tore a rose and gave it to me while your lips whispered the question of my name. You never got an answer, because the thorns from your rose dug into my fingers and I started running.
We found each other facing the water of the sunset. The sun that fell crying observed us while we talked without words and our feeling caressed the sand. I tossed a rock in the water to distract the past to the bottom of the never ending ocean. You never touched my face to take away the cold because your feet had plunged into the sand with the letters from that goodbye.
We crossed paths between the overflow of the city. I looked at you while you looked at the time and I turned my face before I could see the lost time thinking about you on your watch. I continued to the opposite side of the street, like I dud that cloudless morning. But this time you didn't follow me to convince me that the next time you would call to my door would be without rain.
We desired each other when the calendar ended and we fell broken on different sides of the meadow.
We found each other facing the water of the sunset. The sun that fell crying observed us while we talked without words and our feeling caressed the sand. I tossed a rock in the water to distract the past to the bottom of the never ending ocean. You never touched my face to take away the cold because your feet had plunged into the sand with the letters from that goodbye.
We crossed paths between the overflow of the city. I looked at you while you looked at the time and I turned my face before I could see the lost time thinking about you on your watch. I continued to the opposite side of the street, like I dud that cloudless morning. But this time you didn't follow me to convince me that the next time you would call to my door would be without rain.
We desired each other when the calendar ended and we fell broken on different sides of the meadow.
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