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Variations on a Theme of love (8)

8. 're away, leaving only memories while living in return. Clinging to the images and makes light of your body on mine, strain memory and fill the empty space, empty even by your silence. Because every day your voice fills the space of words, but your words are empty and some have changed beyond repair.

only memory to deal with your increasingly cruel anecdotes, memories as an antidote to your nostalgia. Stories I tell, nothing else, to believe that voice that reaches me from far away along the sea, where they forbade me to follow as a notice of abandonment, to assume that voice is yours, that voice is the same disembodied voice of your body, Salua, which for days was next to mine and it was different. Full. Your distant voice still speaks the secret language of your nails and your teeth, and my blood.

conveniently came in days later, just in time for me to finish writing about the devil, time and conviction. Now it is easier to see prophecy in these letters but then was pride because you liked. In your absence I do not know, write lines, pages and letters every day and every day I do believe that you have read, sometimes I ask that you read my letters to the phone. But the end is silent or empty words. A I love you that nothing says, a nostalgia that I no longer share and your heart rate so far that no longer responds to the beat of my own, or modify it, or respond. Empty words and silence.

few days ago you wrote your name on every surface of my body, scars on the superficial and deep, your name carved into my ribs, you name reorganizing the structure of my veins, going slow and fast at once, as momentum and blood, like a white snake invisible spine. Secret language of your nails that left furrows in my skin, silence words in your teeth marked on my muscles with the dye blood does not escape my body but coagulates and hardens inside. Cries that came from our mouths and they were just as blue spots on the fragile skin, flesh weak spots that turn black as the days go black as the fate that is becoming more true. You will go as the pain of the brands that we in the body. Close the memory of your memories as skin and muscle re-stick and no trace of that once we open the flesh desperate possession. Secret language of our bodies, primitive and magical writing by the thought ever be able to merge. But not anymore. And live of memories, bruises, burns and scratches not enough to deafen your voice empty, ever more distant on the phone.

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Without a care for those injured hand, by burning cigarette, for the cut that fails to close and the pain will recover. But your writing is deeper, engraved in my bones, my soul. Guess a bas-relief in the bones that are more noticeable because not eating or sleeping, in the deepening dark circles and dark, your name on back pain, gastritis and insomnia. Your name indelible however once deleted without scars. It will dissolve any bruise which disappears and is returned to the river of my veins.

I become an alchemist pain. Reconfigure each wound in a sign of love. My skin look in the mirror, I remember you in the mirror of memory, can not find a way to translate your language into mine, tracing our wounds as if we were a single being, broken and detached. Cry my tears away and I cry at night the pain that does not know how to express. And so we find pleasure. Near or far, we share the desire to merge, perhaps feed on each other. Wear in the end leave us wounded, dying. And that, perhaps without reason, we call love. Impossible love doomed to failure because deep down, we will always be two irreconcilable different passengers.

Then you came back different, you left for me and then you left. Soon, and I know now-that's why I stick to the wounds and keep open while you can, come back again differently, I'll leave me for him and you go again. Heal the wounds of the body, any mark will be erased by time. And perhaps, the other, deeper, those wounds where my fingers do not come, I can not keep these open, too closed. Love

started bleeding and the skin, but does not kill. Love will not even scar. Love in the end, after we will be called pain. Your flesh will close on my mind and start to forget. For a while or forever. But our names will not be a cry of agony for the full moon, will not be the pain that binds us. Our names together, Salua and Erick, are what you start that now separates you from me. Why not return to me, but after us and will not be the same, take me form part of your blood, demon, white snake in your veins. And I hurt for life. Without end. Salua and Erick.