Gift

I gift her shampoos, whole wheat flour, soaps and instant oats

pencils and home food

not porcelain mugs, vases or bouquet of fancy candies

nor DVDs or moonlit nights

it is my way of saying something

that something is yet unknown to me

or to my mind

the word “something” is limiting

“everything” has unlimited exposition

she brings the gift of selfies with

a face full of pain and tears

much more than this

she gifts me unlimited horizons

of laughing over situations

that are gifted to us

she likes those gifts or that’s what she says

she gives me love (not a cliché)

of the kind that’s unimaginable

it is beautiful than love itself

although it is not love

it is neither anything else

she shows her recently shampooed hair

and I see the scene in a slow motion

and the aroma touches my nostrils

and she washes her face at a tap

in an open-air café

and let the water dry, naturally

she loves the coolness of the water

and I look at her face

that has a sudden glow

is it the water?

then she walks and talks and laughs and nods

and listens without listening

the immaculate attention that she doesn’t give

or the phases of her naughty eye movements

irrespective of what I gift to her

or what she gives me as a return gift

I find her trajectory of living riveting

Ella es un regalo

y cuando cierro los ojos

todo lo que veo es un niño