Una Noche de Verano

At ten in the morning exactly, she whispered 'pour me another drink', if you don't have it, make it up, we had twelve hours left... what do I know...
At ten in the morning, the dawn already hurt me enough to lie to her, to accuse her of following me in that forbidden love.
At two, if my memory doesn't fail me, she scratched my back, said 'I can't sleep', smoked what was left of my chest, and kissed me, like no one has kissed me before, and the singer remains imprisoned in the memory, in a timid silence my past and her future settle in.

I remember kneeling down, I remember the taxi number that drove me to hell, her sleeping without the usual good mornings of a night, without permission or license.
I remember well the faces of the people who lifted my body, only the oath I engraved under her belly button, the strong flow of the river in the hotel bed.

One night like that I approached the bartender, he looked up pretending to see, he served me, without me asking, the broken glass. My mouth didn't bleed as the rascal she mentioned so much promised, I didn't feel like closing the wound and I waited.

And at seven moons more adrift, by my side, further south of that wood, a story similar to a sailor was heard. And in the promised land there is no longer gold and the Galician retreats inland and the lament that runs through the bay did not return.

I remember forgetting her goodbye, her silence until tomorrow. Her freckles no longer rhyme with the verses in bed, being all the poetry, it served as paper. I remember Benedetti in her eyes questioning my past for passing, life passed one summer night. I don't curse her lie, only this desire...