The Last Tango
"Starting over? Maybe you should think twice this time; you only have one heart, you only have this body, and perhaps this is your last chance to love." That once alluring gaze of yours now feels grey and wandering, burdened by accumulated regret on your shoulders. Your story has battered you, but it has not been in vain, believe me. Perhaps they once stayed for your smile, but now it's your ideas that keep them because you filled the cup from which you drank life. The best we can do is believe that we are worthy of new adventures.
It's no use looking at the clock now that we've understood it's made of sand, that there's no turning back, that the last grain will be the last. "I want to experience everything; the first date once again, take me to the coffee shop, but this time, stay for the after-dinner conversation." Because we haven't come this far to undress, laugh, and share stories about birthmarks that we will one day forget. "I want to know this time when was the last time you cried uncontrollably I want to fall in love with your grey days too, because we will have them, for sure." I just wouldn't want to be your next tragedy. I still don't know if you exist, and I already want to know on which side you prefer the bedside lamp. I want to know your favourite scent, have my home envelop you in warmth, and have my hands be the ones you want for the rest of your life because maybe this time will be the last time I can start over.
It's not unfortunate to know that there won't be another scarf on my hanger in ten winters. I don't need to say that I'm ready for something eternal, even though eternity now feels like a short story. But I want it to be as dense as 'Pedro Páramo,' which taught us that the best story in the world doesn't need more than 160 pages at half-margin. I want it to be different this time, not because you deserve it, but because I deserve it, and the steps I have left to take deserve it too. I can't help but think that perhaps your scent on my shirt will be the last breath when the calendar beats me. I want to leave everything in your hands, the sighs, the kisses, and the photographs on the piano. I've shed many tears; now it's my turn to dance with you, one last tango.