"you’re going to fall in love with a girl with hair a little longer than mine, another writer-type with all sorts of ideas about things but perhaps a little less aggressive about them, you’re going to kiss her in the ways i taught you and you’re going to figure out some new ways too and when the two of you have sex, she will be just a little bit better at it than i ever have been you’re going to fall in love with a girl that smells good enough you bury your face in the curve of her neck and her tummy will never growl like mine always did. she’ll be deep and mysterious but she won’t come with the heavy past sitting on her shoulders. she won’t ever keep you awake with worry. she’ll always text you back and never bite too hard and never act in a way she can’t explain later. she will not cry when she gets drunk, she’ll just fall asleep beside you. you’ll fight with her sometimes because all couples fight but it won’t be with the teeth and claws that we had, it will be almost gentle, it will be over before it really gets going you’re going to love her until you’re no longer really sure if what we had was all that special. you’ll start badmouthing me to all your friends. you’ll forget about me in most moments and eventually you won’t even be able to tell someone what our first date was or our first kiss or even if you fucked me the last time that we spoke. i’ll just be gone to you, just a memory of a memory, a girl with dark eyes, a half-capable poet, some word on your tongue you’re no longer sure of but you remember that you used to know it. i will no longer be important." “I’m still holding out hope that somehow someway we’ll end up together in the end…”

El futuro por Julio Cortázar

Y sé muy bien que no estarás.

No estarás en la calle,

en el murmullo que brota de noche

de los postes de alumbrado,

 ni en el gesto de elegir el menú,

ni en la sonrisa que alivia

los completos de los subtes,

ni en los libros prestados

ni en el hasta mañana.

No estarás en mis sueños,

en el destino original

de mis palabras,

ni en una cifra telefónica estarás

o en el color de un par de guantes

o una blusa.

Me enojaré amor mío,

sin que sea por ti,

y compraré bombones

pero no para ti,

me pararé en la esquina

a la que no vendrás,

y diré las palabras que se dicen

y comeré las cosas que se comen

y soñaré las cosas que se sueñan

y sé muy bien que no estarás,

ni aquí adentro, la cárcel

donde aún te retengo,

ni allí fuera, este río de calles

y de puentes.

No estarás para nada,

no serás ni recuerdo,

y cuando piense en ti

pensaré un pensamiento

que oscuramente

trata de acordarse de ti.