It seemed to me that the words were over, that the syllables with their lyrics and their links were erased and blurred like drops of tears spilled on the paper on which one day I decided to write you a song.
I was watching how the paper drank from the fruit of sorrow, how it absorbed each line and turned it into a blue stain, which left the mark of sadness when it dried.
I spent hours or months, I never stopped to think about it, clinging to a blurry memory that only kept the best of you, and that did not stop feeding my longings to be able to look into your eyes one day and guitar in hand, caress the chords to the that I put your name.
I remember that it was on one of those afternoons in which the rain echoed the sighs that it drew on the windows of my room, when watching the last of the sun’s rays fade amid the impetuous advance of the storm, I felt you further than ever.
And I had to assume that that song would die before being performed, that the notes on the staff were just silences, symphonies for silent instruments. I saw how the verses and rhymes were rewritten, taking on a childish and cheesy musicality.
Evaporated by the fire of pain, I released all those words that I had held hostage so that they only belonged to you, allowing them to regain the vulgar use that others used to give them.
I stared at the paper, now blank, unable to write anything, because I felt that there was nothing in the world that would make sense of more than two words together without having to cross them out.
And I stayed like that for fifty-four days, which elapsed until one night, in the privacy of the most secluded table of a random joint in an unknown city, a guitar that was not mine played that song for the first time.
Now I have no words. They left behind you.
The same voice-over, which used to tell me yes, never stops yelling no.
How did you leave without saying what you thought and now I have no choice to decide. “