Like old paper mimeographs

I come piling solitudes
the cramped room
of silences, where they no longer fit
A bunch of dumb books
attract the attention of a caress
or from a look, like the look
to the histrionic, provocative woman
and seductive that sweeps the porch
at dawn.
The afternoons in these months
end in rain, unless
that the sun dares to undress
the sky, so that the birds
they go up horizons.
I don't want to build walls
and lock myself in them, perhaps
I would do it in a built cell
from books.
I look for a piece of paper or a
detached sheet of a notebook,
a white paper left lying around
hidden in the night, like a
I remember when they don't arrive
the ideas, I also want
write on your skin, tattoo yourself
like old paper
mimeographs and wringing ink
fingerprint on your body
Ships sail through the veins
crossing portals in the mirror
of dreams, I hope to arrive
to the port of your charms
docking at blue hour.
When still the moon eclipses
in your areolas and illuminate your

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A veces leo.

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