Just One More Chance

Hace ya un tiempo quise escribir bajo el manto del insomnio y en inglés. Hasta ahora vuelvo a encontrar este escrito, así que, "enjoy".

And so it happened. He came to my door, wearing that dirty white shirt, those old and ragged shoes I quite hated, that hat (oh! that stupid hat that sickens me), and in his right hand a sad rose that slowly died. He was there, he was really there, and I couldn't believe it. He had promised so many times that he'd come, so many nights did I wait awake for him to knock on my door, waiting for him to appear suddenly; and now that he was there my mind couldn't find a logical explanation to what was happening. He was soaked, as well as I, the only difference was that I wasn't wearing any clothes. Why was he there? Why, after so much time, was he standing right before me, piercing with his glance my naked body and my frightened soul? Why now, when I had finally believed my own lie, thought my own illusion to be true?
He kept on glancing me. It was frustrating, and I loved it. He decided to step in, but I stopped him, gently pushing him backwards with my long and fragile fingers, and I felt how his chest –where my hand was placed– relinquished to move on. He now focused on my hands, and I felt his warm stare on every fiber of it. I felt how he longed to hold those hand he had held on his so many times before, so many times before, so many times… He started to drive his eyes from my hand up, until he paused when he reached my eyes again. His crimson lips called me, his unshaved beard recited my name, his hands couldn’t repress the hope of touching me one more time; he desired me. His chest breathed once more, and this time he broke my strain, and came rushing in like he had done the first time, when we met on the classroom and played as if life was to end the next day. He held me on his arms, and reached for my lips…
It all happened; we fought in a game of naked bodies, in a game of hands and lips, all night long. All night long did we die and find rebirth in each other’s existence; all night long did we hand ourselves to the fantastic illusion of love, of fake passion, of something we knew we would never find, not again, not after this night.
I woke up. He was there. He slept while I studied his body, inch by inch, like if it was the first time I saw it. I knew I had killed him. I didn’t feel any remorse; there wasn’t any feeling that could enter my heart in that moment, for it was cold, as his was. No love, no sadness, no faked passion, no hate. Where was I? What time was it? I stood up, and reached for the door as I remembered with a lingering misery his face the night before, he was smiling. He was smiling. He had never smiled, not even once. Did he know he was going to die that night? Did he smile because he would finally die in the arms of one who loved him once? Did he smile because I, and only I, was going to kill him? I left the room, undressed, and opened the window that led to the balcony. There was I, a single human, a single sinner. And so, I jumped to the emptiness of Paris.

--His body didn’t produce any sound when it reached the pavement...

-- Those that die because of an empty love were never alive in the first place.