Natacha G. Mendoza
Lover of art and literature. He lives in the Canary Islands, where he finds the inspiration to write.
Photography by Jordi Casaempere
I write "Man" and you are already putting it to work, maybe earth or brick. Of the tie better to forget, it is not one of those that run because the meter in rush hour and blah, blah, blah. I write "Ella" and you are already undressing her, she dances on her ends, she spins while her long hair is born, which does not tangle because you do not want imperfection. Perhaps you feel her on the edge of that window that I have not yet named but that you already see, and the sun sets her on fire, because the sunsets are like that; they creak, they make shadows and everything is music. I write "Love" and you look for the one who didn't have a tie, you take him out of the field, you put cream on his hands. Break the time, the seasons, any fold that could trip her up to that window, where the fire is still scandalous, because She, without dressing, must find her gaze. I write "End" and you protest that there are no stairs, no elevator, because the window is very high, and the sun that you have invented, is blinding any possibility to the penultimate word.