"Bolero" by Julio Cortázar

How vain is it to imagine
I could give you all, love and joy,
itineraries, music, toys.
It is like that, certainly:
everything I have, I give it to you, true,
but everything I have is not enough for you
as everything you have
is not enough for me.

So we will never be
the perfect match, the postcard,
if we are unable to accept
solely in arithmetic
two comes from one plus one.
 
Laying around, a piece of paper
that only says:

You were always my mirror,
What I mean is, I had to look at you to see me.

And this fragment:

The slow machine of heartbreak
the gears of reflux
bodies leaving the pillows,
the sheets, the kisses

and standing before the mirror questioning
each to himself
no longer facing each other
no longer naked for the other
I no longer love you,
my love.