My dear:

Butterflies take to the air rather agitatedly in this soft perpetual place where I am and which happens to be autumn disguised as spring. The unstoppable and somewhat nostalgic flutter of its wings reminds me I owe you five glasses of Vermouth, two smiles, a wink and one or two nights of pleasure and unequivocal pleasure. It also reminds me, honey, that you owe me several songs by Armando Manzanero, one or two by Ana Gabriel and, above all, dearly beloved, And the Clock Struck Ten by Joaquín Sabina.



Those butterflies that for a long time have known the end of this slightly crystallised sky that covers us, also remind me that not long ago we decided to leave our most unnoticed and individual inner deaths in order to fully devote ourselves to this hourglass-shaped love with altered minutes and passionately constant seconds and to these curtains swishing under the cover of our warmest looks. Yes, this love, and these fevered butterflies that surround me, remind me that not long ago I decided to leave, for you, my love, my job as a spy, as a corporate spy. They remind me that not long ago I decided to destroy all the microfilms, data CDs and all the information I’d stored for years and which was worth millions but which neither you nor I wanted to know anything about.



Those butterflies that surround me, you know, also remind me of that night in which your eyes confessed to me that your job wasn’t other than being a sweet and pretty Mata Hari. That means your eyes admitted your passionate task was merely seducing me with all the charming devotion of your hair in the breeze, and to be aware of each and every one of my movements. A job, yours that is, remains as constant as always. Of course, I’ve left mine behind and now it’s but covering my thoughts with you each night and woo you with kisses every day. Yes, my days as a spy have been left behind since that subtle and passionate instant of touches which were somewhat transmuted into dreams, when you told me you’d leave everything for me. We have indeed left everything, to the point it doesn’t matter if anyone intercepts this letter which I’m writing to you right now. It doesn’t matter anymore if there are more spies around us, because they’d only learn that we love each other.



Last but not least, do not ever, honey, forget that you’re like the flower that perfumes the shades of my horizons, and that I hope you come here soon, to this place where butterflies and domestic curtains move concurrently; to this tropical paradise where I’ve got an excellent house next to the beach, because here, my dearly beloved Nina, we’ll only be spied by the eloquent impetuosity of a breeze that is like our love, that is, a breeze that each morning and evening seeps through the windows and strokes the curtains.



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Observing Reality Through Desire (Fragment).
© Miguel Ángel Guerrero Ramos