I carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                     i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

By E.E s, 1954.

Las últimas notas se escapan, desgarrando tibiamente el silencio que le abraza, y él suspira, cansado.

Desde los espejos, su reflejo se multiplica en vano, una falsa ilusión que llena de luz la estancia vacía, donde sólo él habita. Acompañado por el fuerte aroma a café que inunda su vida, un leve suspiro que levanta sus energías, por un segundo, antes de caer de nuevo en la apatía de otra tarde ensayando a solas, en secreto, perfeccionado pasos que ya son más que perfectos.

Ha realizado los mismos movimientos tantas veces, pero nunca es suficiente, nunca es demasiado bueno. Y él se obstina y practica hasta extenuarse, hasta consumirse entero, hasta que sus ojos caen y el sol arremete contra él, burlándose de sus esfuerzos, susurrándole que ha perdido otro día.

Y él le contempla desde lejos, encerrado entre las sombras, oculto en su deseo de verle, perdido en su rostro bañado de plata, sal y lágrimas regando su piel de nácar, la luna llorando sobre su cuerpo teñido de bermejo, las mejillas como coloreadas contraídas por el canto de su corazón latiendo acelerado, marcando el ritmo de una canción inacabada. Ha perdido la cuenta de cuántas horas han pasado desde que dijo que se iba, pero no importa, nada importa; tan sólo contemplarle, grabar en su mirada su rostro eterno, imperecedero para que cuando la noche caiga sobre su cuerpo pueda volver a verle en su delirante fantasía de un amor de verano que sólo dura lo que dura un suspiro (y que es tan sólo un sueño que duele cuando, al amanecer se desvanece entre sus dedos). Eso es lo único que puede hacer ahora, velar por que Jinwoo vuelva a casa, regrese junto a él, aunque nunca le ha pertenecido, aunque nunca haya podido llamarle suyo su corazón le anhela, esperando por el momento en que sus ojos le verán como si fuera nuevo, tintados con las tonalidades rosáceas de un amor que nace, la primavera llegando a su puerta y entonces él le besará, alegre, ligero, con esperanzas. Pero eso es sólo un fantasma que jamás sucederá, una imagen desvaneciéndose en el mar que le ahoga, en todos los momentos en los que Minho ha mostrado más de lo que él quiere y Jinwoo no lo ha sabido leer, demasiado tierno e inocente, velando sus intenciones con su mente de niño pequeño. Jamás habrá entre ellos nada más que amistad pues Jinwoo no corresponde a los latidos que su pecho emite y que susurran su nombre al viento, lluvia goteando, pintando las paredes de su corazón de rubí y escarlata (quererle así duele, pero no sabe amar de otra manera y Jinwoo se ha llevado, con cada una de sus sonrísas, los alaridos de sentimientos que le están consumiendo).

Cuando la música se detiene, Minho sabe que debe marchar, apresurarse de regreso a casa, cerrar la puerta y fingir que ha estado ahí todo este tiempo en lugar de observándolo en una fría noche en la que su amor no acaba. Y así se suceden las horas, escondido en la oscuridad, como un niño jugando, temiendo ser descubierto pero deseando ser encontrado, forzarse a decirle la verdad, esa que planea en sus labios cada vez que le mira, las ansias de abrazarlo, retenerlo entre sus brazos y sentir su pecho, ese otro cálido corazón latiendo, ese que hace enloquecer al suyo, latiendo acelerado, como una canción desesperada que nunca termina por mucho que él intente acabarla.

Pero aunque su corazón le pertenece a él obstinadamente, Jinwoo no le ama y es sólo amistad lo que, soplando, apaga la llama, llenando la noche con el tenue aroma de un cumpleaños pasado, de esperanzas y deseos vacuos, totalmente vanos.

Y su corazón le pertenece, lo lleva dentro aunque él no sea conciente, pues Jinwoo tiene su corazón (lo lleva en el suyo).

Te llevo en mi corazón

The last few notes scape, ripping timidly the silence that embraces the room and he sighs, tired.

The mirrors are, in vain, multiplying his beautiful features, an illusion that fills with light the empty place where only he is standing. With the sweet aroma of coffee that lingers always in his skin – like a dim breath to lift his exhausted energies before falling apart again, back to the routine that it is practising alone, in secret, perfecting steps that are more than perfect – he knows them by heart, he moves like a wave at the same pace as the remaining bits of a fainting song in the far end of his mind.

He has done these same moves so many times but, for him, it’s not enough, it’s never good enough, so he insists on it, practising until dying, soaked in sweat and blood, until he is consumed, eyes down and the sun lungs at him, laughing at the fact that all his efforts are useless, whispering in his ear that he has lost yet another day.

And he observes from afar, hemmed in the shadows, hidden in his desire to see him, lost in his silver bathed face, stained with salt and tears, sliding over his cheeks like rain; above the moon cries over his reddened frame, blushed cheeks contracted by the singing of his heart, beating fast, accelerated, the cadence of an unfinished song. He has lost track of how many hours have passed since he has told that he was going but it doesn’t matter; nothing matters to him, only being able to stare at him, engrave inside his sight his ethereal, graceful face, that when the night falls over his features he can see him again in his delirious fantasy of a never ending summer love that lasts only what a sigh is made for – and that it’s only a dream that hurts when morning spreads over him, dispelling between his fingers like sand on the sore washed by the sea. This is all he can do now, watch over that Jinwoo will arrive home, back to him even when he has never belonged to him, he has never been able to call him his own but, even then his heart longs for the moment when his eyes will see him as if he were new, hued by the roses colours of a love that is blooming, a spring that is arriving finally and then he will kiss him joyfully, happily, with hopes. But this is only a tail he convinces himself with before falling asleep, something that he knows will never become true; this is only a picture inside his soul that is blurring away, like traces on the beach that the waves will erase – like the ocean of doubts Minho lives in, sinking to the bottom thinking about all the times he has said or done more than he should but Jinwoo hasn’t read, comprehended (he is so gentle and innocent, how could he even understand the depth of his love?), he has concealed his intentions, his true feelings with lies that are breaking his chest – he knows so well than between them there is only friendship, that Jinwoo doesn’t correspond the crazy thumbs of his heart and that whispers his name to the wind, tears falling down, wetting the walls of a scarlet core – loving him like this is painful but this is the only way he knows how to love and Jinwoo has taken away all of his smiles, the screams of his own feelings are overriding him alone, they are turning unbearable but he stands there, in the shadows, all alone, thinking that Jinwoo will, one day, see through him, understanding, finally, that he is loved far more than songs can sing or words can say.

When the music stops Minho knows that he has to go, running back home, close the door and pretend that he is sleeping, that he has never been there, in this practise room, stalking him in a cold night where his love last forever. And, like this, hours follows, hidden in the darkness like a kid playing, fearing been discovered but waiting for nothing but to be find, to be forced to tell him the truth, the one that glides in his lips whenever he looks at him, the yearning of hugging him, to keep him there, between his arms, feeling his chest over his flesh, hearing this other heart beating, the one that makes his own go mad, thumbing like a despaired song that never ends.

But as much as his heart belongs obstinately to him, Jinwoo doesn’t love him and they are only friends and the word alone blows away the flame of his undying feelings, filling the night with the slight aroma of a past birthday; hopes and wishes thrown to the waste.

And his heart belongs to him, he carries it unknowingly; Jinwoo carries his heart – he carries it in his heart.