Sigh
My sigh repeats itself in the space-time of the bell before the funereal march that leads to the graveyard, the robins chirp searching for a new mate, first of April, and I open my palms upwards, dedicating them to the white tablecloth.
—Will you pour the wine, or should I do it?
I’m not afraid of your sharp nails diving deep into my flesh and my memory of an unstained tablecloth like our erotic encounters, my beloved.
—Wish you had the guts to fight with the asshole neighbour of ours to the east.
Space between your open legs slowly fills the void that defines the distance between your two sensual points: bullet exits the body of the soldier, and the breeze enters the small stigma size of a pea where memory falls asleep, and spring never visits
— If I only knew what goes through your mind, and you are always forgetful
April and the hyacinths announce the Easter eggs revolt in red garments, nothing can stop the rebirth of my dream in my mind.
—Don’t peel the orange that way. Who taught you this nonsense?
Libros Libertad 