No more boobs or asses

I have my head cleared.

It hasn’t been like that in a long time.

My head is not a macho head anymore.

I’m not thinking about boobs and asses.

I’m not thinking about sexual postures.

Someone has removed my brain’s porn posters.

And I know who is that someone.

It’d be impossible not to know who.

Your gorgeous smile is everything I see.

I see it on the street: going to my bus stop, not noticing that my feet are landing on every puddle in the sidewalk, water that wets my socks and facilitates fungus proliferation.

I see it on the bus: squeezed and fondled by tens of zombie Lima citizens who go to their concrete prisons as I do.

I see it at work: on the two only songs I hear over and over again (Mujer Noche and Adiós, amor) without getting worn out.

Do you promise to give me more of your smiles? I’m running out of the ones you gave me that night. Do you promise that you will give more of what Amado Nervo refers to as the most immaterial thing on you?

My brain emasculated, I cannot draft the obscenities I used to load my novel project with. I cannot write boob or ass anymore.

I just want to keep seeing your smiles everywhere, until I get hit by a truck while crossing 28 de julio avenue.