Acerca del post "..."

Me di cuenta que el post que publiqué con el título "...", está todo en inglés y no lleva ningún tipo de explicación. He aquí la aclaración:

Resulta que ese día, estaba viendo un canal de Youtube (que se los recomiendo totalmente si gustan de poesía y algunas cursilerías), Button Poetry donde varias personas recitan las poesías que escriben y creo que hay un concurso a la mejor poesía, muy interesante en realidad. Y bueno, vi muchos de estos videos y cuando llegué a la poesía de la entrada "...", la puse directamente porque no quería que se me olvidará y no puse ninguna explicación porque la poesía en sí era muy elocuente, pero está en inglés y probablemente, muchas de las personas que vieron la entrada, simplemente sintieron flojera de leerla en inglés y luego traducirla...o no sé, pero de todas maneras hago esta entrada para primero poner el poema completo en inglés y en el siguiente post traducir el poema y de paso dejarles el video. 

LOVE NOTES 

By Lauren Bullock

 

If my heart is poetry, then the last love poem I wrote is a crumpled up memo, and you are a journal I was hoping to fill my days with until the space ran out. But I must’ve cramped my writing hand because even muscle memory has forgotten how I used it. Were you thinking of her then too?

When I flipped through your pages, did you remember her fingerprints on your surface edges? Was I just a creased corner pointing backwards for the place you saved for her? And when she broke your heart, did she also crack your spine, so you would always fall in her direction?

I admit I never left you open on my nightstand, but I guess you were already stolen in someone else’s secrets and affection. There’s a reason I stopped using notebooks and pencils; at least, the backspace is relatively painless when you enter into a document knowing is only temporary.

And no, I’m not afraid of her ink stains. Just my habit to Rorschach their meaning into tea leaf and palm line predictions, reminders that all stories must have endings because I will always believe in the portraits of disaster, even if it never begins.

So, when did I become so bold that I scrawled my thoughts in marker hoping they would bleed through your body and become permanent? But you marked hers first. Said you would always be her diary and I guess that just makes me an entry on an off day.

But see, I don’t care how many libraries there are in the world, I still look for you when I can’t find the right synonym for beautiful. When other men touch me, I am searching for your plot lines. Your paper cuts are the first thing I was willing to bleed for in so long.

But I’m not blaming you, I’m blaming me. Because if my heart is poetry, then I only want you to remember the lines about love lingering like my scent on your t-shirt that night you asked me over even though we both had to get up early the next morning, do you remember? You said you’d put it on later just to be close to me again.

But I’m not trying to be more than your friend, nor am I postponing an inevitable end. After all, they say if you truly love someone, you let them go.

So please, know that I’m willing to paper crane all your pages until they papyrus the sky like the stars we’ll finally discover when they turn out all the lights.

And I may never be the one who sleeps next to you at night, but at least let me be the love letter tucked beneath your pillowcase to remind you that no matter what you will always, always be worth to read, my love.

PS: Resaltadas las partes que más me gustan...