NOVEMBER

It’s November,
autumn with a hint of winter in the air,
a time for cosiness,
sofas, blankets and Netflix,
the month of emotions.
But who better to tell us
what’s happening right now
than a literary genius
such as this master.

I love you to bits, Julio Cortázar

I’ve already told you that, for me, November is a mix of feelings. On odd-numbered days I’m filled with nostalgia, sadness and the cold, and on even-numbered days I come back to life, I’m filled with hope, I paint myself blue and go out to dance through the streets, full of life. In November I love a great deal and hate very little, and sometimes I only hate and love nothing at all. The cold always makes me feel homesick; that’s a fact. The cold is what invites me to have him close, very close, and to travel the whole world in search of the sun, to see it seven times in the same day. Cortázar gave us one of those poems that leave the soul embalmed after it has died, so that it can carry on in this world. This poem accompanies the cold, immerses it in a cup of hot tea and banishes it, because now my beloved is here—when I sketch him in the corner of the rusty book, when I name him at the end of a poem, and when I dedicate that very poem to him, which now makes me look up and sigh. Because November has arrived; I feel it in my bones, and today I love deeply, and there is no room in me for hatred.

I love you for your eyebrow, for your hair; I debate you in corridors
Snow-white where the sources of light play out,
I argue with every name of yours, I gently tear you from a scar,
I scatter ashes of lightning into your hair
And ribbons that slept in the rain.
I don’t want you to have a form, to be
Precisely what lies behind your hand,
Because water—consider the water—and the lions
When they dissolve in the sugar of the fable,
And the gestures, that architecture of nothingness,
Lighting their lamps halfway through the encounter.
Tomorrow is the blackboard where I invent you and draw you,
Ready to erase you, for that’s not who you are, nor are you
With that straight hair, that smile.
I seek your essence, the rim of the glass where the wine
It is also the moon and the mirror,
I seek that line that makes a man tremble
In a museum gallery.
Besides, I love you, and it’s been a long time and it’s cold.

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