Poetry
Jugando con Huesos

Mi mano sobre el piso,
Mi hombro subterráneo,
Siguiente, mi cabeza, que nunca tenía juicio.
Estos huesos apoyaban piernas cansadas, un corazón quebrado, y pulmones ennegrecidos,
Apoyaban una piel quemada por el sol que vivía en la sequía.
Después de poco tiempo, la única sequía era la mía.
La oscuridad finalmente me besó y cerré los ojos para última vez.
Los niños aquí, de la muerte, no tienen miedo
Ellos juegan con sus huesos.

She Was a Mystery

She was a mystery.
You could never get too close to her,
Could never get a clear idea of what she was really saying -
You could only try to make sense of her vagueness,
Only attempt to interpret the strange words she said with nonchalant conviction,
And try to uncover the secrets she dangled in front of you.

Maybe that’s why they all found her so compelling,
Why you, just like the rest,
Were caught up in her charming,
Yet distant smiles she aimed in your direction.

An Unpublished Work


I wanted this to be the one, the only lasting feeling - I wanted to be immortalized in her love.
I wanted my kisses to linger on her skin, my touch to sink into her bones.
I wanted my words to be etched into the fabric of her thoughts, the echo of my voice pervading the silence of cold, lonely nights.
I did not want the comfort of our warm embraces or the heat of our passion to fade away.
But in the end, all things must come to an end.
For everything, including us, is ephemeral.

My fingerprints have faded and been replaced by someone else's.
My words are nothing but inconsequential syllables that have disappeared from her consciousness.
My voice is a half-forgotten tune of a time she has left behind.
The warmth we shared has seeped away, leaving a barren wasteland of cold and empty nothingness in my heart.

Perhaps I was only a story in her lifetime of love, but to me, she was the entire fairytale...
Only our story had no happily ever after.
I wanted to write countless volumes and new editions...
But instead I am left writing an epilogue for an unpublished work.
There is no happy ending to this tale –
This story is for those who reread their memories, and trace the patterns of their old scars only to find that these words are not the past, but a haunting present that refuses all attempts to be forgotten.