Everything’s worn out mijita.
Our sheets threadbare and stained,
your shoes tangled beneath the bed
and my back aches getting ready, again, for us:
our candles, our mirror, all of the roses
you’ve hung by the stems, and tonight
tonight is for manchego, anchoas,
our kitchen buried in snow.

And I’ll be too tired to know why my love,
why it’s so cold; or are we so drunk
on the cava we drink and we drink
that you can’t remember?

Tonight is for sunflower seeds,
your pipas, for gambas al ajillo!
And all of the shells you've spit into the ocean,
I'll sweep from the floor in the morning.