Each city looks at me
with the eyes of other woman
with which you could cross a street
suspire together in a public park
throw the same bread to squirrels.
Each city has an avenue I avoid
the star of the maps
the infallible circuit of tourist guides.
that saw her
beating at your side,
buying clothes in some predictable store
or taking photos of obelisks
like in the catalogs.
I immerse myself in small invisible lanes
passageways touched by the dawn
that secretly host in flower pots
some sneaking spiders.
And I spin like a dancer in her stage
for a beholder in the first seat.
Perhaps my life with you was only this.
A different tour across a town
that you remember, still.
Translated by Marisa Martínez Pérsico