Malecon

All along the malecon, near the playa de los muertos I think of blood. There are terrors in a strange city. Something the idle grey dog on the sidewalk can’t smell anymore. On the Malecon, small children climb the statue of small children climbing. I don’t know how this ends.

These are the small carnages. The things that happen in the slipping. You are sleeping on friends’ couches. He is walking the hallways of your home thinking about laundry. I am a continent away placing down words carefully trying not to see how I am not part of this.

I am nothing in this city. The rooms here like gaps, the rooms where you kissed him until the colour drained out into the courtyard, hid in the garden. You have destroyed balconies, stars and ponds with your kisses. The city is demolished. Your mouth is everywhere. All along the highway small fires of truth are burning. Women stay home and cover their mouths.