Categoría: Bukowskiando por un sueño.

I want my Japanese siphon coffee maker.
Even though I don’t need it.
I have several others.
Each one works just fine.
They make coffee.

But I want that one—
not because it’s fancy,
or beautiful,
or unintelligibly smooth with all its bubbling sounds
and the spectacle of brewing
that is
a Japanese vacuum coffee brewer.

I want it because
I would have to teach myself how to make coffee again.
Because I would need to pause.
To contemplate.
To learn.

Because I would do it differently, this time.
I want it even knowing
that eventually I would get bored of it
and start making coffee some other way again.

Or maybe I would just display it at gatherings:
friends admiring it,
saying things like:
“Oh wow, look at your Japanese coffee thing!”
They wouldn’t understand
how important this one is.

I want it—
even though I fear it would become
just one more
in the endless series of coffee makers I already own.

I want it,
even if it’s pointless.
It would only make coffee
because I set it up.

But I think it’s worth a try.
To bring this vacuum contraption into my life.

Because if it works—
maybe I would never need another coffee maker again.

And I’m not talking about
a Japanese siphon brewing machine.

she smelled like no,

talked like maybe,

and kissed like punishment.

she wanted to be loved

the way broken windows want to be cleaned—

loudly,

painfully,

and only after you’ve bled a little.

we had a daughter.

and still we felt like strangers

rubbing trauma against each other

like two cats in heat

with abandonment issues.

we didn’t make love.

we made need.

shaped it with moans,

and tucked the silence under the pillows

like it wouldn’t crawl back up.

i told her i was tired.

she told me i was distant.

and then we kept meeting like bad ideas,

half-naked and fully resentful,

in the bathroom stalls of our messages.

sometimes i miss her.

but only like you miss the flu—

when you’re cold and lonely,

and you forgot how much the fever hurt.

she cried for validation.

i sent her memes.

she needed a man.

i played therapist in boxer shorts.

and still—

i wanted her to like me.

not because i liked her,

but because she hated herself just enough

to make me feel like a god.

so here’s to her:

the long goodbye i never gave,

the “maybe” i should’ve ignored,

the love that felt like shrapnel in a hug.

fuck.

look—

i didn’t come to rescue you.

i came because

i couldn’t stop imagining you barefoot

in the kitchen,

making instant coffee with sugar,

in a half-busted thermos

like it’s an act of defiance.

I don’t have answers,

but i’ve got bread.

and time.

and the good sense

to know when not to touch

so something can bloom.

your daughter leaves,

and you’re left behind

like a house missing the finger paintings on the wall.

i’m not here to replace the art.

i just want to sit with the echo

and let you talk

until it softens.

you say you want to swim,

get your old tits back,

find her a stepdad.

and i think—

if you ever really wanted,

with what you’ve got now

you would’ve already made me stay.

but that’s not what i’m here for.

i’m not even sure i’m here for you.

maybe i’m here because

out of all the places my voice could land,

yours is the only one

where it sleeps through the night.

i’d love to kiss you.

but more than that,

i’d love if you looked for me later

without shame tangled in your ribs.

i’m not here to make you open.

i’m here so that if you ever do,

you’ll know

i won’t run.

and if you don’t—

i’ll still be here.

i’ll just leave your side

of the bed with a pillow.

just in case.