The Day You Fell in Love

We all preserve a magnanimous love in oblivion that is not forgotten, in the silence that screams, in music that no longer sounds, in words that no longer exist. We all preserve a love, never finished and always cursed, erroneous and triumphant, beautiful in its defects, impossible but real. We all preserve an immense love that could not be, but it was. And you are mine. Although I do not write to you anymore, because for a while I panicked to bleed so much for writing, although I do not talk about you anymore because I have nothing to say, although I no longer mention your name as a chimera, but as a promotion in the career of obstacles that I had to overcome to overcome it. Although not anymore, never, always do, always, with me. You see, one day I told you that I lied to you, and the truth is that I have not stopped doing it since then. I lied to you when I said that I had forgotten you, but also when I told you that others would not come. Because they did come, you know, others before whom I undressed in body and soul, who knew how to play approximate keys, never exact, but sometimes enough. Others whose end never meant a precipice, not even a failure, because they were never for me a true destiny, but, only, the safe-conduct of your flight. But others came and I did not care where you were going, much more because of who you were with. However, you have returned again and again to me, like the echo of a cry that reminds you of who you are, how the sailors return to the place where they were born when they drown in the beauty of the infinite sea. As he returns home who, in reality, has never left completely. In short, as if I felt part of my home in the midst of so many adventures. You've come back so many times, that sometimes I forget that forgetting was just and necessary. That there will still be someone who wants to suppress one more of my letters talking about you, because you do not deserve them. But love is not a simple matter, however much we try to simplify it in these times. Love is not just a choice, even if it consists in choosing oneself over everything. Love is not deciding to forget tomorrow who suits you and start from scratch with who compensates you. Love is not statistics, nor mathematics. And if it's science that I snatch your smell from your chest. It does not matter if that love accompanies you now, whether it lasted two summer nights or a Christmas night, if you kissed him for the last time three years ago, two decades, or a week. It does not matter if it was the circumstances, the youth, or the damned pride that separated you. It does not matter if it can not be anymore or if you still think it is possible. It does not matter if you have already re-established your life, if you are already happy in other arms, or if you are both at peace without a partner. It does not matter if fate led you to live far away, or if you keep crossing yourself in the usual square, in the city of always, the one that saw you grow, love, and say goodbye in the best years of your life. It does not matter that forgetting was the goal and quereros became the best race of youth. Because if you got here it's because there's a name bouncing in your head. Because if you are still reading it is because during a temporary period you were so happy that you did not know how to express it in words, but there were plenty of smiles. Because that Saturday in November you felt that life gave you such a valuable prize that you asked three times to stop the time. Because you had the privilege of loving and being loved, and that, in these times, is a luck that only those who have been able to experience it can appreciate.