28 noviembre 2018


You are absent and I don't see you, I don't even feel your breath.
Maybe you died without me noticing.
Like a petrified mummy you are next to me,
who no longer hears or feels,
just worried about what the mirrors say.
Maybe it all started with the game of masks.
That game we started,
when we began to dig the grave of our love.
Three hundred and fifty-five shovels,
shovels of disagreement and contempt.
Not one more nor one less.
The masks that we bought in installments,
in the markets of dissatisfaction and indolence.
The masks that allowed us to continue breathing,
living a life with exhausted credit,
as we picked up the dead skins of our encounters from the ground,
to go on until we get fed up, throw up and try to wake up.
of this tedium-induced comma.
It's time to end the game,
to break our masks,
to give us a chance to reach the chimera of happiness.
Recognize that we are dead,
that we died a long time ago,
bury us and rest.
Then will come the time of resurrection.
Image source: Pixabay