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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In the labyrinth of my heart, I whisper an unknown "goodbye" Not to a specter, for it is not so, For it mimics but never extends its palm to respond, In response, my empty hand remains suspended in silence. And in this, a new clear outline appears: The triumph not of the voice, but of the mouth, Opening like a fish, soundless, for a silently frothing "why," An aquarium recognized for its comfort, Where tears do not flow, and songs do not resonate, Where a hand suspended in the air becomes, in fact, a fin. So, to you, who have surpassed the sight Of united sirens, passing from our waters to the blinded light of day, I write to you about the blood that slowly cools, About the density of pain covering every corner of my cerebellum, About the memories etched in pupils, impossible to tear away, About the pain that, with a muffled mouth, silently screams at the internal organs. In the flow of consciousness, I detach from everyday reality, Swim through metaphors and long lines, like fish through reefs of thoughts, There, where my delicate touches become ballet in water, the dance of singular melancholy, In an aquarium of memories, where only silence is real and the pain boundless. Your inner siren sings a perpetual hymn of longing, Without voices, only with an open mouth, bubbles of unheard sounds, In this aquatic sanctuary where tears do not flow, Which I carry and transform into breaths of water, Your palms become fins, and every time you disengage, I feel a profound silence, a bluish clarity, a healing calm. And yet, even from the depths of this blue silence, The sap of pain continues to gush, writing on the wall of my forgetfulness, An unwritten poem, only felt, where cold blood flows slowly, Between the heartbeat and the clench of the soul, A silent song for every lived pain and smileless breath. I find you in every bubble, in every memory hidden in that aquarium of my mind, Where your suspended hand becomes an elegant swim towards forgotten light, Through the density of the painful present, you remain unchanged, a vibrant specter, I lay my thoughts on the corners of consciousness, silent witness to transformation, In a world where pain screams through silences, and memories become mute songs. Thus, I float, in a flux of consciousness, between longing and hope, My body becomes a fin through the ocean of time, Writing about us, the depths of melancholy, and the forgotten warmth of the day, A living testament of a pain that cannot be shouted, only felt, Until cold blood becomes poetry and our consciousness an ocean without bounds.
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