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Love is an anguish, a question, a luminous doubt suspended; it is a desire to know the whole of you and a fear of finally knowing it.

To love is to reconstruct, when you are away, your steps, your silences, your words, and to pretend to follow your thoughts when unmoving at last by me side, you fall silent.

Love is a secret rage, an icy and diabolic pride. To love is not to sleep when in my bed you dream between my circling arms, and to hate the dream in which, beneath your brow, you abandon yourself, perhaps in other arms. To love is to listen at your breast, until my greedy ear is glutted, to the noise of your blood and the tide of your measured breath. To love is to absorb you young sap and join our mouths in one river-bed until the breeze of your breath impregnates my entrails forever.

Love is a mute, green envy, a subtle and shining greed. To love is to provoke the sweet moment in which your skin seekd my awakened skin, to gratify the nocturnal appetite and to die once more the same death— provisional, heart-rending, dark. Love is a thirst, like that of a wound that burns without being consumed or healing, and the hunger of a tormented mouth that begs for more and more and is not sated. Love is an unaccustomed luxury and a voracious gluttony, always empty.

But to love is also to close our eyes, to let sleep invade our bodies like a river of darkness and oblivion, and to sail without a course, drifting; because love, in the end, is indolence.





Décima muerte de Xavier Villaurrutia


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