It's not that I die of love, I die of you.
I die of you, love, of loving you,
of me needing my skin on yours,
of my soul yours and of my mouth
and the unbearable me without you.
I die of you and me, die of both, of us, of that,
ripped, broken,
I die, you die, that die.
We die in my room, in which I am alone,
in my bed in which you lack,
in the street where my embrace goes empty,
in the movies and parks, in the streetcars,
the places where my shoulder is used to your head
and my hand in your hand
and my whole self knows you as I know myself.
We die in the place I lent to the air
so you're outside me,
and in the place where air ends
when I throw my skin on you
and we know each other in ourselves, separated from the world
blissful, penetrated, and true, unending.
We die, we know it, they ignore it, we die
between us, now, separated,
one of the other, everyday,
falling down in multiple statues,
in gestures we see each other,
in our hands that need us.
Nos morirnos, amor, muero en tu vientre
que no muerdo ni beso,
en tus muslos dulcнsimos y vivos
en tu carne sin fin, muero de mбscaras,
de triбngulos obscuros e incesantes.
Me muero de mi cuerpo y de tu cuerpo,
de nuestra muerte, amor, muero, morirnos.
En el pozo de amor a todas horas,
inconsolable, a gritos,
dentro de mн, quiero decir, te llamo,
te llaman los que nacen, los que vienen
de atrбs, de ti, los que a ti llegan.
Nos morimos, amor, y nada hacemos
sino morirnos mбs, hora tras hora,
y escribirnos y hablarnos y morirnos.
[Jaime Sabines]
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