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la lírica


I took the letters of the words you said

to write the stories of my days ahead,

I layed unconscious, yet aware

of arrows aiming at my bed.

I had a longing for a scent I loved,

but would love further to forget,

I had a need for days to change

into days we had not met.

My flattered ego was lacking roots,

your empty silence speaking truth,

I asked for days to bring me news,

and sat as time outran my youth.


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The memory of you, your Self, your selfishness, your awe,

Your scent, your senses, your presence and your lips,

The tears you’ve caused and the hurting you’ve owned-

The birth of Litha, the season of the Sun-

Announces time has concealed your wounds with wonder.

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Y si…

Y si dijera que sí? 

Cuánto tiempo pasaría para que tus colores dejaran de sorprenderme al verte desprevenida? Cuántas veces podría contarte una historia antes de que me detuvieras?  Cuántos años pasarían antes de que tu vida fuera la mía?  Pero sobre todo, cuántas cosas acerca de mi tendría que explicarte al día?

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Dull as your senses, sharp as my wit, the world collides with anger when by nature our natures meet. You think of your senses, you dream of your touch, no boundaries of arrogance, limitless lust . You look at the clouds when our four stars align, your eyes have no mercy. Your world is too known- this ought to change according to the centre of you that disapproves of the common. I seem to get along with your scent; no power have I ever had over chemistry. But the grey in your head is no dusk worth admiring. The air within your hair is just wind, trapped as it was sighing. 

Spells of the medieval is what you seem to have crafted me, and I would change that for my life if I knew life goes further. Dry as your touch, even rough, when by accident it touches, wet as my lips when my lips belong to you. The sun appears to fade, the sounds of day slowly vanish. The night is now the one to mark the pace, while my mind, shapeless and constant, thinks still of nothing but your face. 

The birds are now being, the moon is now pale, my words are only windy when I think of them at sail. My life is still lifeless and yet I adore, and I will never within the skin of night regret loving, as much as you have to regret your bore. 

The lack of life has plenty to give- a deep underground with nights enough to spare, little or no light, and no life signals at arm’s reach. A set of brand new words from a language one must invent, with a mind full of structures that a heaven once sent. In this lack of life there is no memory that comes from sight, and no scent close to the one you wear on your skin. There is absolutely no fear of height, for height lays high up, where two bodies meet sin. Sick as some moments, fresh as your laugh, thorough as our journey and still so short when you look back.

The universe is not meant to explain what is just bound to be. If the sun could see me staring back, it would not lessen the strength of its light for the sake of my sight. And so, if your heart could feel me now, it would not do a thing, for your heart is just a heart with no sense of those who sing. 

So blameless you go, and go run off free, into the warmth of the earth and the cool of the sea, as I lay underground, where your sight can’t see me.

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I do not intend to keep your heart

I do not intend to keep your heart. It’s broken, torn, glued back together and broken back. Mine is too, maybe more. I wouldn’t mix the two, make one whole, our pieces won’t match. Keep your heart. I’ll keep mine. Glue it, let it dry, let it heal and scar. Then we’ll talk. In the meantime hand me your lips and lend me your hand. I’ll read the lines and look for signs that we’ll meet again.

Just know: I do not intend to keep your heart.

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