Ojos superocho

There are memories that play in my head like old film reels - with noise, jerks, overexposure, and that strange warmth that makes everything seem a little more beautiful than it was. And here too - the past crackles on a Super 8 reel, where love is no longer a drama, but a museum exhibit with a "do not touch" sign. It feels like you want to rewind, but the tape has faded, and instead of confessions, there are only awkward shots left - someone is smiling, someone is leaving, and the music is playing a little louder than it should. It's all over, but how sweet it sounds to say "I didn't think of you," like a final signature on a postcard sent to yourself.