What will you be up to now,
curled up in the armchair,
outlining constellations in the empty areas
of the paintings that have yet to be hung.
What will you be up to now,
turning off the living-room lights,
perhaps trying on a new dress,
planning an escape, to see the sea.
And I sharpening moons, lost in the hotel,
discovering your touch on the toilet bag.
And looking for you in the blue bathroom mirror,
in the worn clothes of the wardrobe.
What will you be up to now,
tired of watching TV,
keeping my peace and my portraits,
and the custom of sleeping on the left side.
What will you be up to now,
Cursing the light, the first sun,
beautiful with your puffy eyelids,
watering the plants, all the memories.
And I removing dry leaves from the bed,
dreaming of being with you under the water.
And remembing that I forgot to hang the clothes,
asking myself what you will be up to now.