Mary Sue,
with lemon eyes
after the drought
of revolution that
the seventies left
in you,
after you wanted
to win the heart
of The Madrid Scene
through ecstasy
and acid
as lucid as the visions
you had listening
to Nacho Futura
or Radio Futura
or any rock song
that could bring you
a better life
and a better love
than any man around the corner.
Mary Sue,
like the Eiffel Tower
in the countryside
of Texas,
maybe time isn’t
on our side,
you still have the blue ink
across your wrist
to hide the only scar
that made you feel
alive;
you remind me of
Japanese porcelain
jumping from stages
of insignificant night clubs
to break
in imperfections.
Mary Sue,
I see your sadness
from miles away,
dancing in your garage
in the middle of the night,
nothing could make you
feel so lonely
than home;
and now P!nk makes you cry,
like the youth
you seemed so iconic
and eternally fragile,
like the girl you used to be
and you lost it.
Mary Sue,
you have nothing to lose
if you disappear,
not even the man
sleeping in your bed;
maybe time isn’t
on your side.
Maybe,
I don’t know,
maybe it never was.
