Never-ending Reconstruction of the Past

While I am trying painstakingly to piece together the route we took in Granada, and thinking about taking pictures of it - as a visual reference for remembrance - an image flashed through my mind: it was the street running alongside the Campo de San Francisco and leading to the bus station. One block before reaching the station, I would turn left, then right, and left and there I would find above my head your closed window - because you'd left. I was in the station to see you off, you were surprised by my presence. It was a cold and misty early morning, futilely, I chased after the bus on my bicycle - attempting to keep you in my sight for just even a few seconds more. Shortly after leaving the station, the bus took to the bridge and then disappeared on the horizon leaving disturbed vapours in its wake and a lone figure panting violently in the middle of the semi-dark street called Peña de Francia.

The Departure Lounge

I like airports, don't know why, but I like airports, despite my having to lug around my bike gear every time (almost) I'm in one of them. Probably because that means I'm on a trip to somewhere else - to be on the road for example - the unknown is expecting me, and that idea excites me. Or also perhaps because I like the international air, to be around people from different countries, talking in alien tongues.

My mind then wanders to the departure lounge, and there, surprisingly, I thought about you. It was bittersweet. While we walked on the deserted streets, I told you about the full moon. Then we were lying next to each other in the camouflage of the night, I was happy. But now you are so far away from me, and in about one month's time we will be in different continents. The distance doesn't shorten the pain, it poisons me, and is killing me.

Why did this doggone departure lounge make me think about you? Why? Why is it no matter what I do, where I go, laughing and crying, awake and asleep, thinking and idling, I think about you, see you and hear you? That was where you came from, and where I'll be heading. The prospect of not seeing you anymore terrifies me, and I dread the day of my stepping into that air conditioned room. It's a fear that stifles, a pain that finds no solace.

Creo que la veo de nuevo

Creo que veo de nuevo,
acostada a mi lado en su cama,
su rostro seductor, hombro desnudo,
como la musa de un poeta!

O calor nocturno!
felicidad divina!
o memoria encantadora!
loca embriaguez, dulce sueño.

En mi insomnio,
creo que he vuelto a verla,
ondulando sus ojos de júbilo,
en las vibraciones rítmicas del melodía!

O deseo desgarrador!
trampa diabólica!
o memoria caprichosa!
loca embriaguez, trance agudo.