Vuelvo

I'm back.
I want to believe I'm coming back
with my best and my worst story.
I know this road by heart
but I still find it surprising.

I'm back.
I apologize for the delay.
It's because I made a lot of drafts.
I have two or three old grudges
and just one trust left.

I deliver my experience right to your door
and every hug is a reward.
But I still have, and I feel no shame,
nostalgia for exile.
At what moment did people
open again what can't be forgotten,
the lovely burrow that is life,
guilty or innocent.

I'm back.
And my day is being shared.
The hands I regain and the ones I let go.
I have a face in the mirror again
and I find my gaze.

I'm back.
With good spirits and good intentions.
The wrinkles in my brow have disappeared.
Finally, I can believe in what I dream.
I'm at my window.

We.
We kept our voices.
You all are healing your wounds.
I’m starting to understand the welcomes
better than the goodbyes.

I left less mortal than I return.
You all were there, I wasn’t.
That’s why in this sky there’s a cloud
and it’s all I have.

Pull and push between what’s longed for
and my own fire and someone else’s ashes
and the poor enthusiasm and the condemnation
that doesn’t help us now.

We all
are broken but whole.
Diminished by forgiveness and resentments.
A little more worn and a little wiser.
Older and more sincere.

I’m back
with overwhelming hope,
with the ghosts I carried with me
and the neighborhood of everyone and the friend
who was here and isn’t now.

Without mourning
I come back and realize
that it has rained so much
in my absence, in my streets and in my world,
that I get lost in the names and confuse
the rain with the crying.
I’m back.
I’m back.
That’s why I’m back.