South of Mexico

maybe if i had stayed in europe
you could have forgiven me and
we'd have gone to talk to strangers at the Espacico Niram
off of Calle Independencia Nº 2, several thousand
meters from your flat on a weekday maybe
if I was there
under some Sangria carnation cloud you
wouldn't have been capable of finding
that white gold girl, that brunette with thin lips
if I was there
with my fists white and stuffed
into your hair.

All of my friends hated you
you were too loud and obtrusive, your hands too free
with sloppy words strewn together in loose loops
of grammar, sad English with weird vowels,
heavy English that nobody laughed at you
should stop writing me letters because
it is too hard.
It is too hard to think about and it drives me
to drink harder than when you were here
and my life was ending.

Tell me things, but tell me them later.
You are like me, in another place with other people
and I can't suck at fumes anymore
for that feeling.
It was that feeling, and you know it
but we have had so many other lovers since
those looks, the dense ones in the dark
so the pity is over, now, darling the pity is over.

When you go to Boston with that smart woman
the one with the headband and short nails
I'll probably be pressing my face against some
new stranger from the north, or the south
someone with new and underwhelming tactics
for climbing inside my mouth and I'll press
with the same velocity I used
on everyone else but you
in Cuatro Caminos, some old year
some old, old year
back before we were old enough to die.