Siempre hay algo que decir...

“What are we?” I asked.

The girl in front of me thought a few seconds, her eyes were lost in falling leaves of trees due to the autumnal wind of Buenos Aires, and she told me: “I don’t know”.

Two hours earlier, we had made love.

Everything was unexpected. I had broken up with her two years earlier (I have tried to forget why, I just remember the feeling after her departure).

She was like a ghost. I grew old and she made me older. Not only it was the pain of her departure, was to rebuild my live without her.

I hid. I did not want to know about her, but her search was as a beat that was becoming stronger.

Her heart hit to my heart at Corrientes Street. She went to see a play and I to buy a book.

She walked slowly, as always. Her hair looked different, but her figure was the same (thin, long legs and shoulders back). Suddenly, she turned to me.

Time stopped.

The talk was unique, she was different, I was different, but we both knew that our search was over.

The hotels in the Corrientes’ area are not the best for lovers, serious lovers I mean, but it was the perfect place for two orphan souls.

I was shaking, and she knew it, especially when her trembling hand touched mine. What were we doing?

Her brown eyes became hazel, like honey, while my clumsy hands were unbuttoning her blouse. She looked like before but I could not recognize her, perhaps because with time her face became blurred.

I’ve tried to remember one word, a phrase used by both, but there was nothing. I just remember her hands swimming like fishes on my back, sometimes stormy, sometimes trembling.

And I kissed her. I kissed her like never before. And I explored every nook unknown, forbidden by my memories. And then she opened to me like the first glimpse of the dawn. We became one only person. One warm and pasional person.

I was not me.

Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt the wind grew stronger, hitting the fragile windows of the room. Hitting my fragile consciousness.

And happened. I began to feel a crying within me, a rain inside while I lost in her scent and I tasted her sweetness. It’s was the time, and I know it.

“Caresses can be painful?” I thought.

And I clung to her at the last moment, when our breathing faltered and some sounds pointless saying "I love you".

After that, everything was silence. My hands clung to her wet body, because I did not want to know about time.

Something was wrong. Obviously some people was in our bodies and souls, and with each kiss on our skin, they changed everything. Those injuries hurt us today. We are two strangers and we know it.

At what point I lost contact with her soul?, When she decided not to call? When she preferred not to think about the places that we renamed?

- “You don’t know?” I ask her finally.

- “You know?” She retorted me.

I nodded: “We are ghosts”.

It’s said that ghosts remain among the living because they don’t accept their departure. I accepted hers that evening, while I saw her lost in fog.

Mi pecho siente una opresión, pero no, no es tan mala, simplemente son pequeños síntomas de sentirse vivo; la vida es así, tan dulce como agria. Siempre he considerado un milagro nuestro encuentro, el choque de nuestras almas, nuestros miedos, nuestras necesidades, el encuentro de dos seres cuyo rostro ha sido cause de lágrimas muy particulares, esas que van acompañadas de amor -a veces escondido-, de pérdida, soledad y pasiones.
Ayer, mientras leía las cartas de tus padres, encontré incidentalmente mucho de nuestra historia, ahí estaba escondida en frases escritas por tu madre como "viva la vida", en su encuentro con un cuadro de Frida y su sorpresa por citas de Herman Hesse (te dije que en la prepa era mi autor favorito). También en lo que escribía tu padre, al hablar de su cotidianidad tan extraordinaria, de su amor hacia tu madre, a las palabras que ella pronunciaba, a ese espacio que transformaba con miradas y caricias trémulas.
Me vi en ellos y te vi en cada linea, entonces entendí por qué tu alma me cautivó cuando te conocí, comprendí "esas cosas" tan maravillosas que, me han dicho, hace Dios (¿cómo podría explicar que existan tantas y tantas coincidencias entre nuestras maneras de pensar y vivir?)
Sé lo especial que es esa libreta y ahora me advierto entre sus líneas, con tu puño y letra, y te agradezco eso; es extraño, porque es un honor que creo nos merecemos (lo mismo sentí yo cuando me ayudaste a poner el árbol de Navidad y saqué el trenecito de mi papá, me encantó compartir contigo esa ausencia).
Ay niña, creo que estoy melancólico porque los causes empiezan a aflorar, pero es que ya ha sido tan largo el camino hasta aquí, que mi alma lo resiente. y me rebelo sabes, porque no quiero pensar en el tiempo, ese que se llevó a nuestros padres dejándolos en "palabras". Ayer pensaba en eso, en lo que significa morir y en la necesidad creciente de seguir dando pasos aun cuando no haya más camino. Soy un necio quizá. Te Amo.