Questions that hurt.
Could you tell me what you did with the teddy bear?
That I gave you for the birthday.
Where do you hide the storybook with that dedication in French?
And with the popsicle of the first ice cream that we lick together.
You want to tell me what is the affectionate nickname of your new partner.
Will it be Din-Don-Corazón.
Who knows if you call him Honey-Bear.
Can you explain the coordinates of the star that they have discovered?
Or which one they are in when they are separated.
You will tell me about animals that wallow in the sunset clouds.
Will be the same squirrels.
Or the white lambs that we saw.
And long-eared dogs or desert towns.
He will write you terrorist notes in the notebooks of the University.
I'm going to eat you a little ear when you come.
Or if you don't come soon I'm a dead man.
He will take you half of his afternoon snack.
And a bouquet of butterflies with I love you.
On a napkin.
They will play hand-to-hand before going to bed.
And they will continue playing afterwards with that affection we used to play.
You will laugh with their heavy jokes.
And they will dance on the terrace naked when it rains.
You want to tell me the songs that you sing to him.
Steep on the cornice of the old mansion.
Could you tell me which side of the bed you sleep on?
With the feet above what memories.
Would you be so kind to show me where you recycle my poems?
In which ocean did you throw our dreams.
