All the decisions that we make one day
live on piled up like wreckage
or ethereal fragments
that climb and rise up
just like vines
that never let go of us.
Love is black,
the journey is black,
the house is in darkness.
Without nuances or scales or brilliance or contrasts
there no longer exists in the shadows
even the outline of your face shouting out at your enemy
for the right to the last word,
sadness descending in an elevator,
or the tracks that are the vestiges of the moment
in which I left and you left my childhood,
a place we will never return to.
The lights of the future avoid details
and permit living
beyond the shifting shadows
that now cross the sand,
the sheer darkness
behind the abyss,
but they never reach
the dwelling place of the inevitable shadow
anchored in memory