I’d tell you,
but you’re asleep and dreaming of
better things than this room.
The night isn’t whispering;
it’s just quiet because the traffic died down
and the radiator stopped its rattling.
I’d say the words until my jaw cracked,
until my tongue felt like a dry sponge,
not for the purity of it—
there’s no purity in a mouth—
but because it’s the only honest thing
left in the bottom of the glass.
And when you’re dead,
when your ears are just bone and dust
and can’t hear the rent being due,
I’ll still be saying it to the walls.
Forget the stars.
The stars don’t give a damn about us.
The wind is just cold air moving around.
It’s just you and me
in this cramped space,
the clock ticking like a slow execution,
and me,
still here,
stubbornly leaning against the dark.

©️ Beatriz Esmer