Sometimes, I find myself thinking about that place we know.
But you are not there anymore, you’re far away now.
Do you remember that bridge in Edinburgh?
I was there last month, but you weren’t behind me,
kissing me on the nape.
I remember your green eyes,
they told me more than any word that might come from your lips
10 years ago, I wonder where are you now, what do you do.
Are you happy?
Imagine we had not taken different paths,
imagine that night on Rose Street, after dinner Cullen Skink,
that conversation had not existed…
Would we have been the same?
Here I am again, thinking about that coffee on that place,
where they say that famous writer made up the adventures
of a teen idol wizard.
I was (trying) to read The Guardian
and you asked me ‘why don’t you try The Scotsman?’
I answered ‘I don’t know it’
You said ‘you don’t know me either, even so you’re giving me a chance’
I told you that I didn’t know anybody in the city and I was bored.
We end up drinking capuccino and making love.
Este relato es pura ficción, producto de lo que me inspira la ciudad de Edimburgo. Una historia de amor (im) probable, que no imposible. Fugaz, enigmática, que marca, que no se olvida jamás y que, por los caminos que te puede llevar la vida, puede resucitar, porque nunca murió. “Donde hubo fuego, cenizas quedan”. Me encanta ese dicho.