I Have Stopped Believing, Neruda

I dream of poetry, Neruda;
Of your words woven in the fabric of my dreams.
They unfurl, barbed and armed, from the mouths of boys I have kissed,
and from the parting lips of the girl I once loved.

I could write the saddest lines, Neruda,
but I know that they will never be the saddest lines.
This is just the beginning, and there is no real end.

I have stopped believing, Neruda,
in everything that I have been promised
by those black-tongued rogues of my youth.
I have stopped believing, Neruda,
in things I was told that I deserved.

I have stopped believing, Neruda,
in a love that waits for me on the other side.
There is no silver lining with which to sew between my teeth,
I am not doe-eyed in my reflection from the flat scrying water.

There is only my imagination, Neruda,
that keeps my crystal gears turning and the curtains rising.
I imagine my dreams come to life,
and because I have no nightmares I can taste the pleasure piled thickly on my tongue.

It is late, O real one,
and yet I am awake.
Where have you been? I've missed you.
I have missed you, and I still do.

There is paint on my hands, but I have not been painting.
There is blood on my wrist, but I have not been bleeding.
There are stars in my eyes, but I have not been loving.

Él es el rey de mi corazón y mis sueños, pero no lo amo.
Como un perro, tu mientas postrado en mis pies,
y como un perro tu me moderá cuando cierro mis ojos.