Palabras

Quería compartir algunos poemas/textos/cartas que me gustan y me inspiran.

I've been fifty years memorizing how the lines beneath your eyes form rivers when you cry and I've held my hand like an ocean at your cheeck saying, "Baby, flow to me". 'Cause fifty years I've watched you grow with me - fifty years of you never letting go of me, through nightmares and dreams and everything in between from the day I said "Buy me a ring". Buy me a ring that will turn my finger green so I can imagine our love is a forest - because I wanna get lost in you. And I swear I grew like a flower every hour of the fifty years I was with you – and that’s not to say we didn’t have bad days. but when morning came, you were laughing. yeah, there were times we were both half-in and half out the door but i never needed more than the stars of your grin to lead me home. for fifty years, you were my favorite poem and I’d read you every night knowing i might never understand every word but that’s okay – ‘cause the lines of you were the closest thing to holy i’d ever heard. you’d say, “this kind of love has to be a verb.” we are paint on a slick canvas – it’s gonna take a whole lot to stick but if we do, we’ll be a masterpiece. on nights you couldn’t sleep, i’d lay awake for hours counting sheep for you and you would rewrite the rhythm of my heartbeat with the way you held me in the morning, resting your head on my chest and i swear my breath turned silver the day your hair did, like i swore marigolds grew in the folds of my eyelids the first time i saw you and they bloomed the first time i watched you dance to the tune of our kitchen kettle in our living room in a world that could have left us hard as metal, we were soft as nostalgia together. for fifty years, we feathered wings too wide to be prey and we flew through days strong and through days fragile as sand-castles at high tide and you would fold your love into an origami firefly and you’d throw it through my passageways until all my hidden chambers were filled with lanterns, now, every trap door, every pore of my heart is open because of you – because of us.”

(Andrea Gibson).

Jenny

A Jenny le gusta tocar la guitarra, pero sólo toca la guitarra cuando está desnuda, porque se desnuda cuando canta. Por eso dice que tiene miedo escénico.

A Jenny le gustan las drogas. No necesita alas para volar, prefiere LSD. Pero tiene alas para volar, es un pájaro libre, que baja del balcón del cielo como un ángel cuando tienes ganas.

Jenny siempre está. Siempre está cuando la necesitas, aunque se va cuando crees que la necesitas. Colecciona enfermedades venéreas, pero yo prefiero llamarlas enfermedades de amor. Da igual, siempre vuelve enferma de amor, y te lo pega.

Jenny escucha como si no tuviera nada que decir, sino todo por escuchar. Va muy despacio y escucha, como si ya hubiera estado en todas partes, menos en ti. Así fue como me enseñó todo lo que yo sabía.

Jenny ha estado siempre, desde que la conozco. Desde que éramos muy pequeños. Quizá por eso lo sabemos todo el uno del otro, porque siempre hemos sido niños.

A Jenny querían ponerle otro nombre. Por eso nació sin nombre, y eso me gusta, porque es más que su nombre. Al igual que no necesitamos una razón para correr, no necesitamos un nombre para ser.

Quizá por eso Jenny sea de verdad una persona, y en vez de una palabra suelta sea poesía.

(De mi poeta favorito).