For Caliope, from her Dandelion. [Prose]

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I learned to love you in hours, to help me cry you in prose.
“This is my dandelion.
My breath
goes in your direction
and my wish
is that
you like it.”
Amalia Buitrago

About sorrows and sorrows, due to the impossible love of a poet under the lintel.

“Calliope, queen of the muses.
I imagine the path of my lines pointing to an unattainable love, which is framed on the lintel of my doors and rests like a bird that nests on my dreams and plans, whispering unintelligible questions in a language that only you, the muses, understand. When you know you are loved by poets and troubadours, who are passionate about each other and their art … Between them and their poor art, who don’t look at the relevance of your eyes, who don’t listen to the muffled laughter or the sadness that is hidden behind them. Verses that your soul intones when you lacerate my dreams with your tender voice … Your tender and sweet voice, that speaks to me more of the girl who is eager to live, than of that face that always smiles before the mic.
And I’m silent.
Sitting on the same sofa every morning, watching you hoisted on high, perched on the lintel of my dreams, singing chants to life. Songs to love, and those things that you believed when you were a girl. And I exalt myself to remember that trunk where I kept that crown with your hair in tatters … And I allow myself to fly to return that jewel to its proper place. Remembering you free, reminding you of prose. Monarch of your own desires, crowning you as well as the Red Queen.
Red of grief, red of euphoria. Hyperemia that invades cheeks to know you’re free, to know your trip. Pray for the souls that sad age; pray you, whose spirit reigns over the tenuous that never perishes. Then you win the banality of the artists. You’re not a name or a voice. You’re free, flowing on the highway of your own rhymes. And when I see you face to face, I remember you unreachable, although close. Really close.
My hands move toward those cheeks of a goddess, and I remember the (Poe)t arguing with that epiphany in the form of a crow, and I also wonder: “Prophet, tell me, is there balm in Gilead?” Are there enough ointments for a soul that longs for the impossible, when crying between the lines to see you fly like this? Aida, Aidalí. We would be the envy of archangels and seraphim, we would be stellar collisions between celestial universes. But your wings, those eternal wings, claim freedom and fall on the couch to see you fly like this.
And I extend my hands, to pose them on my chest. While the memory of your insatiable voice makes my hope eternal. And the lines of the notebook demand only one thing:
Interline your flights in the form of prose.
And so, while majestically raising your display of muse, over flashing skies, thousands of feet from these streets, I admire you, precious bird. And I understand that of old souls and souls traveling, understanding that there are no letters that bind you, but that you are part of those flowers that are always one with the landscape.
And I knew that if you would be my Calliope, I would forever be your Dandelion.
That dandelion,
whose breath
will always
in your
For Caliope, from her Dandelion.
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