Archive for April, 2011


You say you love me; I don’t believe it. You say I am your soul mate; sometimes I’d like to believe it. You tell me of your expansive life; I believe that, yet, your libertarian ways scare me. In truth; I love you, and I want your love just for me. I cannot phantom sharing you with anyone else, except perhaps your children.

You keep announcing a visit; yet, it feels as if it’s just small talk, that you don’t really mean it. I’d like to believe you; intuition tells me not to do so – the risk of failure is high, the scars from previous outings still fresh. You whisper in my ears an indelible affection; yet, you barely remember my name, or my birthday.

Do you really love me? Doubtfully. Soul mates? Perhaps in some children’s fairy tales. Ah, the sweet expansive life; free, uncommitted, some may even say “monastic.” Of course freedom is yours and you can choose how to manifest it. You are coming for a visit? I’ll believe it when I see you here, besides me.

Be patient, you tell me; let the unfolding wash us over. Yes, I am growing tired of waiting; our exchanges are becoming contrite; we are running out of topics to chat about. I remain serene notwithstanding; taking notes, remembering what it was, imagining what it could be. Suspended in the clouds I am still awaiting the big crash; I know it is coming.


© Leo Campos Aldunez

Edmonton, AB (Canada)

The Bureau of Missing Love.

At times I wanted to find myself in your eyes, silently. Meet you at the water cooler, sing you a song. Dance at the edge of your heart. Between the rain & the shadows – I thought of caressing your imaginary country; walk all over the rooftops of your world; kissing, softly; conversing at each village of your body, pausing at each hill of your contours.

Occasionally I felt asking you out to hear your stories, tell you mine, my songs; tenderly listen to your longings. The two of us, our space, out time, our place, no “distractions” – my accent, your scents, my verses; your stanzas. The ones you carry smiling from desk to desk, from proposal to proposal as if nothing has occurred.

[Wouldn’t be nice to learn about the colours of our country, taste the salty waters of our skins, and even shed a tear for those no longer with us? Sure, I left many things behind. Was there joy? Of course. Music? Plenty. Regrets? Certainly. Memories burning; a beloved Presidente falling.]

Elusive muse; I tremble when you walk by and gently touch me. Then, silence, anxiety sets in. You leave me suspended in the tender embrace of fortuitous encounters within the “corridors of power” as you so eloquently put it. I haven’t said anything, anything at all. Why? ‘cause as I travel your routes, your sensuous body, glean at those deep dark eyes, my thoughts get clouded; words that seldom fail me, disappear.

Listen, could we not just slow down a tad? Be with the rhythms of the season? I want to know what your hopes are. Are you hurting? Do you still have a militant’s dream of a better world? A co-worker shakes me up as if reading my thoughts; she’s beyond that my friend, she murmur – after 10 years in this place, your “muse” forgot she ever had any.

I insist; do you remember what you set out to do? For better or for worse our paths have crossed – maybe our hearts have been touched by the rains of the lonely. Perhaps it’s all just an illusion, the fatigue of the sameness. Silent muse; I look at your pupils, immerse myself in its waters; take a deep breath, sit idle, waiting. I feel silly. Was I romanticizing storms passing by? Confused by the foggy world of the imagination?

I should muster the courage to invite you out, for a walk; no agendas. Yet, I am sitting here, jotting notes leisurely, wondering where you are; staring at the phone. Hours go by. I will be sending you another email; a suggested reading list. If for no other reason than to be playful, you’ll also receive paper boats; cartoonish airplanes; writings by Rumi, and colorful mantras, until no memories remain.


© Leo Campos Aldunez

Edmonton, AB (Canada)