To C... (parte 3)

3. The desolating image of a man

The desolating image of a man eating alone,
reading alone,
walking alone, from one side to another of his house,
crawling through the walls,
trying to stand for himself...
... falling asleep alone;
picturing someone sitting in the chair that´s beside him,
knowing that her face is real
–it exists somewhere else, away from him–,
that her face, in that instant, is a fraction of another reality...
... that is the saddest image one can ever see.

I try to think about something abstract,
something rethorical, ethereal...
... as my only shield
    against the menace of another misogynist
    mind game I play to myself.
My brain is a blur,
you are on the other side of the bed
whispering something to your girlfriend´s ears.
Then I start to think that,
    at this moment,
there must be nothing more abstract than your presence.

I want to ask if you would like to marry me.
I just want our children to be as beautiful as you are.
You know, life is short.
There´s no need to answer.
You don´t have to sign anywhere...
... it´s just a word anyway.
The tip is my confession.
A little too many words jealously arranged,
the guarantee that everything that´s good in me
    belongs to you,
the scientific evidence that I´m just an effect of your cause,
the unavoidable truth that you are the pulse
    of every move I make,
a few words that I will treasure
to pray them to your soul...
(whenever you want it).