I

I know
that tender love chooses its cities
and each passion takes a home,
a different way to wander the hallways,
to turn off the lights.

And I know
that there is a sleeping doorway in every lip,
a numberless elevator,
a stairway full of little parentheses.

I know that every illusion
has a different way
of inventing hearts or pronouncing names
upon answering the telephone.
I know that every hope
seeks always a road
to cover its naked shadow with sheets
when it wakes.

And I know
that there is a date, a day, behind every street,
a desirable rancor,
a halfway repentance of the body.

I know
that love has different letters
with which to write: I'm leaving, with which to say:
I decided to return. Every time of doubts
needs its scenery.