"It’s over and you’re gone."
— Microcuento #15052
“So we meet again!” and I offer my hand
All dry and English slow
And you look at me and I understand
Yeah it’s a look I used to know
“Three long years and your favorite man
Is that any way to say hello?”
And you hold me like you’ll never let me go
“Oh c’mon and and have a drink with me
Sit down and talk a while…”
“Oh I wish I could and I will!
But now I just don’t have the time”
And over my shoulder as I walk away
I see you give that look goodbye
I still see that look in your eye
So dizzy Mr Busy, too much rush to talk to Billy
All the silly frilly things have to first get done
In a minute sometime soon, maybe next time, make it June
Until later doesn’t always come
It’s so hard to think “It ends sometime
And this could be the last
I should really hear you sing again
And I should really watch you dance”
Because it’s hard to think
“I’ll never get another chance
To hold you to hold you”
But chilly Mr Dilly, too much rush to talk to Billy
All the tizzy fizzy idiot things must get done
In a second, just hang on, all in good time, won’t be long
Until later
I should’ve stopped to think, I should’ve made the time
I could’ve had that drink, I could’ve talked a while
I would’ve done it right, I would’ve moved us on
But I didn’t, now it’s all too late
It’s over, over
And you’re gone
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you so much
But how how many times can I walk away and wish “If only”
But how many times can I talk this way and wish “If only”
Keep on making the same mistake
Keep on aching the same heartbreak
I wish “If only”
But “If only”
Is a wish too late
(Source: foudesoilesysteme, via lulz-time)
I could bet all the riches that I ever had. Rushing the night like a shark, babe, would it be bad? If I had to set the alarm, cause those thrills that run up my back, you are my star, nothing else could leave me off track. Hey. You like a wildfire, you got me rising high your innocence. Whose the brave. Drowning in, would you save meIt’s a crimeIf you don’t, you’re the spy by the throat.
(Source: soulhunting, via soulhunting)
"
(Rayuela, capítulo 7)
Toco tu boca, con un dedo toco el borde de tu boca, voy dibujándola como si saliera de mi mano, como si por primera vez tu boca se entreabriera, y me basta cerrar los ojos para deshacerlo todo y recomenzar, hago nacer cada vez la boca que deseo, la boca que mi mano elige y te dibuja en la cara, una boca elegida entre todas, con soberana libertad elegida por mí para dibujarla con mi mano en tu cara, y que por un azar que no busco comprender coincide exactamente con tu boca que sonríe por debajo de la que mi mano te dibuja.
Me miras, de cerca me miras, cada vez más de cerca y entonces jugamos al cíclope, nos miramos cada vez más de cerca y los ojos se agrandan, se acercan entre sí, se superponen y los cíclopes se miran, respirando confundidos, las bocas se encuentran y luchan tibiamente, mordiéndose con los labios, apoyando apenas la lengua en los dientes, jugando en sus recintos donde un aire pesado va y viene con un perfume viejo y un silencio. Entonces mis manos buscan hundirse en tu pelo, acariciar lentamente la profundidad de tu pelo mientras nos besamos como si tuviéramos la boca llena de flores o de peces, de movimientos vivos, de fragancia oscura. Y si nos mordemos el dolor es dulce, y si nos ahogamos en un breve y terrible absorver simultáneo del aliento, esa instantánea muerte es bella. Y hay una sola saliva y un solo sabor a fruta madura, y yo te siento temblar contra mí como una luna en el agua.
— Julio Cortázar
Fuck-off
