“I come without languages from my solitude.”
Luis García Montero
I look into the storefront
at the reflection of my body
in the glass
and I seem fat, tired, on top of those vanilla pastries.
And I think about the friends that I haven’t seen recently
and what would they know about this weary heart
where there’s not even room left for one centimeter of the world?
And when you don’t recognize yourself in your child’s footsteps, or inthe mirror
fed up with avoiding bad omens
seeing the splendor of your failures from a distance
the undecipherable and the unknown.
I become quiet: my silence reaches out to that body that I don’t understand.
I clear my heart of its final passion.
And I continue a stranger in that storefront,
fat and tired
and behind me
some shadows, faces of grandparents and dead aunts and uncles
on the vanilla pastries.