There are nights when the soul
does not wish to die —
it merely wishes
for the world to stop asking
why it is still here.
So I light a candle,
not to illuminate the room,
but to watch its slow agony.
The flame dances like someone
who knows they are going to be abandoned.
And I understand.
Everything I have loved
seemed destined to leave:
the hands, the names,
the promises,
even those versions of myself
that swore they would remain.
Perhaps living is this:
a long funeral ceremony
for everything that still breathes.
I walk through the streets
like a man who has forgotten
whether he is returning home
or merely searching
for somewhere he can disappear
without causing a disturbance.
The clocks continue.
How cruel.
They do not know that some hours
weigh more than years.
In the mirror,
my face resembles a tomb
where someone still lights cigarettes.
I ask the reflection:
— After all, what are we waiting for?
It does not answer.
Perhaps because it already knows.
Perhaps because I know.
Outside, dawn begins to rise
with that almost divine indifference
of something that has never had to
ask forgiveness for existing.
And, for a moment,
I think of opening the window.
I do not know whether to let the night in
or finally let it out.
The candle is almost gone.
The city remains awake.
And I remain here,
my hand upon the handle,
not knowing whether I am about to leave...
or simply
open the door to another day.