back to the old house

Curious how my new anthology still seems strange to me. All its freshness and its blank margins overwhelm me. The blue book seems to be so far away ad it remains an It. The pencil notes, and the ones made with pen that make me feel somewhat guilty, are there caressing in the loneliness all the poems I have not read recently because of the moving. My previous volume with those remarks from several classes, is like an old house in which one still lays the word "home". The books remain there to be inhabited. Stained white paper. All the extra hours in cafés, seem now lost in a secret. A chest only available for the nostalgic homesick ones; I re-read. I manage to re-write notes in my memory.

Todo esto porque hoy abrí la mochila: bloc amarillo y una 'otra' antología. No mi Antología.
¡Madres!