I walk down the street without further ado and suddenly a smell, a place or the simplest thing, unleashes a tumult of memories that manage to hurt me. It is absurd that nothing else with his absence can tear me to pieces but his presence does not do me any good either, it was a vice that was born of the abuse of kissing his lips, his body, his moles and the endless revolution of my lips on his skin... and here I go again, to that infinite circle of melancholy.

The days come with the same presentation, waking up, looking at the ceiling, getting up, eating and hating transportation that doesn't arrive. It has become as predictable a routine as my face pretending that everything is going well in front of our friends. For a while I tried to avoid his name, the places we frequented, even the kind of coffee we drank, and everything for what. The more I insisted on forgetting him, the more his memory didn't seem to want to leave.

Me and my absurd need to have him, to make him mine and to fill the spaces with his presence, which was nothing more than a beautiful escape from reality. I've always put a stitch in this hollow story.

What he was, I subtly sent him. Always so willing and with that overwhelming energy that took us from place to place, without money, without anything. We were happy with little, or at least I was. I cannot speak of his happiness, but I can speak of those fleeting moments of pleasure that I may have mistaken for happiness.

When the icy night came and caressed us, so we approached without saying a word, everything began at the beginning of the furrow of my breasts and as if my body were asking for it, it ended up above her pelvis, feeling her erection rushing into my crotch. I could feel his frantic breathing in my neck, he used to close his eyes slowly delighting in the perfume of my body, and with his hands full of desire he reached just the point where he broke me, and now I am his, in a couple of subtle movements that were increasing, we began to draw meaningless figures, similar to the brownoid movement, a right angle, a line that rises, from the bottom to the front, up, down, jerking, braking dryly and starting at the same time in another direction and thus creating a figure of something nonexistent, like you and me, like that room that does not belong to us. Where I left my heart, I locked the doors and hid the keys, in dreams, poetry or games.

Sometimes I look back at what I was, before I became what I am.

the text and the photo belong to me.