there are pictures
in drawers
one does not open
some memories
are best left buried
under old receipts
expired warranties
business cards
of places
one doesn’t go to
anymore

as I post pictures in albums
of trips I’ve taken
this past year
I find they are devoid
of people
or at least a person
who I would imagine
standing there
filling the frame
with her presence
and though there is no name
nor face
to that presence
I miss her
just the same

 Olvido These evenings are always vulgar. Once the day is gone with its splendor Filling up everywhere with our loneliness In a scream of colours from our garden, A hand starts to take out from our pack The sorrows smelling of lavender; These evenings are always vulgar. Regrets, attacking in waves, Pushes that bronze door of oblivion And the soul, full of holes with the arrows shot; Here, all of a sudden, you are in the old house where you were born The lamp and the stairs are watching your way, The cradle is creaking with silenced lullabies And all the lost, defeated, crestfallen... It is with the beauty of unspoken love The poems left incomplete on papers; One, towards a morning smelling of rain remembers one day that he opened a door, A cloud holding still, a bird flying, A stone that he knelt down and ate cheese and…