A line is a succession of points,
it is a path.
Besides:
One after another and hand in hand.
The way of the fisherman ends ...
there where the fish are butchered.
Kisses die on ice,
The fire is extinguished,
silence exterminates words,
passion looks for other sheets,
the rose moves away from the carnation,
there is no way of "see you later",
not even back to back,
no spoon in your mouth with your hand.
Sympathy, empathy and shared
who often make love,
one morning, one afternoon, one night
it happens that they disappear
and the looks that were one,
each one makes her horizon.
Love is usually so amorphous that ...
any given day turns to nothing
and the steps of two take different paths,
delineate two paths
in the enormous distance of oblivion.
Loving at the wrong time
arrive and meet without the edges of faith
love without destiny, without common project,
without bread and without onion, without coexistence
no role, no appearance.
Love without years that we have left to live,
without reaching the door
always open at sunset.
To love simply to love
freedom to look into our eyes,
without swearing special eternities.