We’ll start again, from scratch.

I’ll pretend I don’t know you and meet you by chance.

I’ll leave flowers at the corners so that you will find them on your way to work.

You’ll know they’re from me.

At first you’ll be suspicious and you’ll think of me when I’m not around.

I’ll put on my Sunday best and speak to your parents.

Look at me.

I’ll offer you my shoulder at the cinema, when you’re scared, when you sleep.

I’ll kiss you on your walkway, and our never-ending goodbyes will seem brief. 

I’ll copy poetry and swear that I’ve written it for you. You know what a bad writer I am. 

I’ll wait at the church door with a flower in my breast pocket and an ugly tie.

Your mother will cry. Your father will pass out cigars. My cousins will throw rice.

Just like that time, you’ll be mine for the first time.
Look at me.

I’ll build us a house somewhere, next to century-old tree.

You’ll be happy. You’ll scan the horizon waiting for my return at sunset.  

We’ll bicker about little things, just for the fun of making up afterwards.

We’ll fill our house with babies, we’ll build a swing on the tree.
You’ll fix their owies with your kisses.

On Sunday we’ll take a walk together.

Never, ever, again, will I hit you. 

Look at me.

Look at me when I’m talking to you.

Traducción: Brett Lalonde

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