How do you begin to put into a letter,
decades of deserted words, of unused love?
How do I begin to tell you
how long I’ve waited for you,
to love me?
I often cook over a stove and
watch my food catch fire.
I eat it, charred and pulverized.
I eat it,
to remind me of all the words
I’ve burnt in the midst of your fire.
“me muero de frio.”
What words do I have inside me now, in this wild and vacant life?
Your shadow moves with mine,
a vestige I rub my thumb against.
The moon is a liar, she fills me with
a light that wanes, like you…
I wait, and nothing.
I love you, and nothing.
I whisper to you when the pain is too huge, and nothing.
I rub my soft hands on my own temple and hug my abdomen,
feeling myself birth,
a version of me
that doesn’t carry you with it.
