I go up the stairs from the train station and at the end I find your lips waiting for me to tell my tongue with words of saliva what we can’t say with our voice, under your umbrella we let time slip with our hands looking for the softness hidden under the pullovers and theT-shirts, night light is complicit in the longing of our bodies,
with wet feet we take steps in step with our legs rubbing, with our hands clasped, with the scents of those streets filling our pockets with flavors of water, of thirst for the skin. We have a coffee or a beer, at a separate table with our knees playing hidden from the eyes, with our eyes fixed on just us and our eyes, and then we end the conversation
and we go out into the warm rain of the lampposts light, crossing paths with other couples, without seeing them, with no other universe than this darkness, stopping at the sheltered doorways to give the road a break and review the geographies that we had no traveled for so long, those paths that my fingers, your fingers, the yolks of our fingers go back through, stumbling on the buttons, on the belts, on the rubber bands that cut the passage and postpone, just a little bit, the entrance to the starry sky.
I saw no city more beautiful than those wet streets we walked together on the way to the hotel room. Formalities, that create a small pause, which separates us but holding hands, only the sum of the sizes of my arm and of yours, until entering the elevator,
where the already closed door opens the borders where my desire and yours, hot, liquid, like the emergence of an explosion of galaxies, the key, the door, the bag on the chair and no time for anything, abandoned on this downhill of exploration and remembrance, being only senses and feelings and a chemical reaction that releases heat, that mists the window panes that wets the sheets with our salty sweats, that splashes the walls with our moans, that bursts the ceiling and leaves us alone surrounded by stars that stick to your pores and that I melt with the tip of my tongue. And again the hands travel back and forth between the joints, making a pilgrimage along your back, drawing four parallel paths in your belly, roundabouts around your navel, corridors where the night fades without being able to close our eyes.
And now the hourglass that we turned over with the first kiss drops its last grains of sand, the light, which neither of us has called, scratches the curtains that were white with its yellow nails, the water from the shower erases all the drawings with which we had tattooed tenderness and clothes once again hide the bodies that do not belong to us.
Coffee and croissant, and going down the station stairs together, with the return ticket raising a miserable brick wall, nailing its sharp corners in the palm of my hand.
And to wait, reading the schedules in the newspapers day after day until a train would stop again in your city but the press only talks about an acid drizzle that diluted the stone and your skin with it and only, only of those nights remains this ridiculous epitaph that you will never, ever be able to read.
epitafio para unha noite
Subo da estación polas escaleiras e ao cabo topo os teus labios agardándome que lle contan á miña lingua con palabras de saliva o que non conseguimos decir coa voz, baixo o teu paraugas deixamos esvarar o tempo coas nosas mans buscando a suavidade que esconden os xerseis e as camisetas, a luz da noite é complice da ansia dos nosos corpos,
cos pes mollados damos pasos acompasados coas pernas rozándose, coas mans collidas, cos arrecendos desas rúas enchéndonos os petos de sabores de auga, de sedes da pel. Tomamos un café ou unha cervexa, nunha mesa apartada cos xeonllos xogando escondidos das miradas, coas miradas fixas en só nós e nas nosas miradas, e logo, loguiño rematamos a conversa
e saimos á chuva morna da luz das farolas cruzando outras parellas, sen velas, sen outro universo que esta escuridade, parándonos nos portais abrigados a darlles unha tregua ao camiño e un repaso ás xeografías que xa había tanto tanto que non viaxabamos, eses carreiros que os meus dedos, os teus dedos, as xemas dos nosos dedos volven percorrer, tropezando nos botóns, nos cintos, nas gomas que cortan o paso e aprazan, só un nadiña, a entrada ao ceo estrelado.
Non vin cidade máis fermosa que a desas rúas húmidas que percorriamos xuntos camiño do cuarto do hotel. Formalidades, que poñen un puntiño aparte, que nos separan pero collidos da man, só a suma dos tamaños do meu brazo e máis do teu, até entrar no ascensor,
onde xa a porta pechada abre as fronteiras por onde abrollan a cachón o meu desexo e o teu, quentes, líquidos, como xurdindo dunha explosión de galaxias a chave, a porta o bolso na cadeira e xa sen tempo de nada abandonados nesta costa abaixo da exploración e o recordo, sendo só sentidos e sentimentos e unha reacción química que libera calor, que empaña os cristais da ventá que molla as sabas dos nosos suores salgados, que salpica as paredes cos nosos xemidos, que rebenta o teito e nos deixa soiños rodeados de estrelas que se pegan aos teus poros e que eu derreto coa ponta da miña língua. E de novo as mans fan viaxes de ida e volta entre as articulacións, peregrinando polo teu lombo, debuxando catro vias paralelas no teu ventre, rotondas arredor do teu embigo, corredoiras por onde a noite vai esvaéndose sen conseguir pecharnos os ollos.
E xa o reloxo de area ao que demos volta co primeiro bico deixa cair os seus últimos graos, a luz, que ninguén dos dous mandou chamar, rabuña coas suas uñas amarelas as cortinas que foron brancas, a auga da ducha borra todos os debuxos cos que tatuara a ternura e as roupas volven agachar os corpos que non nos pertencen.
Café e croissant, baixar xuntos as escaleiras da estación, co billete de volta levantando unha parede de ladrillos miserables, cravando as suas esquinas afiadas na palma da miña man.
E agardar, lendo os horarios nos xornais día tras día ata que volva partir un tren con parada na tua cidade mais a prensa só fala dunha poalla ácida que diluiu a pedra e a tua pel con ela e só, somentes queda daquelas noites este ridículo epitafio que xa nunca, nunca poderás ler.
abel abilheira 