Right across the palace that houses the Prado,
Bookended by the Caixaforum and Feunte de Neptuno,
Was a building number 26 on Paseo del Prado.

To most who walk past, it is a normal building in Madrid,
People see it on the Number 61 bus to and from Atocha,
A mere glimpse of it passes, and blue buses with a bear eating from a tree make their way up and down.

In a temperate November evening, I made a vow. I walked to the Prado and explored inside,
From Goya to Velázquez, I sat and pondered,
Looking at portraits of Charles V, Mars, and Infanta Margaret Theresa depicted in oil on canvas.

For two years, I had not set foot in that palace, let alone the city it occupied, or the innocuous building that faces it.
The building housed a love that ended very badly,
I am not sure if he is still there, but I do think about him sometimes, sadly.

I had visited the unit that this person occupied, with a view of the evergreen trees that line the promenade.
I will never step foot in that unit again, or climb the four floors to get there like the other men.

It was in that moment that I had released the bond, which had been frayed to a singular strand the width of hair,
I renounced my connection and finally let him go,
Transforming the city into the place I had once known.

Now it is an unremarkable building on Paseo del Prado,
Where people hurriedly walk to work, the metro and back,
Tourists eat jamón or calamari sandwiches nearby,
Madrid felt like home again, and somewhere I could finally fly.