The line has moved. For you, not for me. For me it was never a matter of queues, sequences, I lived in you and I thought it was also your home, there were no others lined up. Just you over there. But yesterday I saw you on the street, smiling wide, in clothes I didn’t know and it hurt too. Life went on. Looking at you with a strange look, having you around like it wasn’t mine, it hurt so much that I thought I was going to go crazy.
The line has moved. I found out recently, when I was told full of fingers, you were already in love again. It’ll always seem too fast, I still don’t understand it’s over. My self-esteem seems to have mistakenly disappeared into the box with its little things, but for you, that’s the case. Love is there, making you new, making you interesting, helping you forget me. Apparently, the next line always goes faster.
- And everything that seemed inconceivable became a routine.
- Everything I asked for.
- Stays now.
- It seems that the line has moved to a better place for everyone.
- And I go here.
- I could say that I am happy.
- That I wish them all the best.
- That I hope they are very happy.
- But I would also be lying.
- I want you to be full.
- Live your truth.
- I really want you to be happy.
- But I’m never going to say I’m happy for you.
I’m not the superior type. I’m not the resigned type, I’m not the intellectual type. I’m not the civilized woman, I’m old and old. I’m primitive, terrified, instinctive. I am the fingernail and flesh of love. Passionate, possessive. Red blood. I am not one of those who spend their lives line by line, I prefer to run, crazy, reckless, free from the need to immediately hold on to another, free from the inconsistency of not being alone, when in reality that is all I am.
That way, my dear, the tail hasn’t moved. I’m going in the direction I want.