Where is sewn OscurasUna empty suitcase in a circle of roses is the closest thing to your voice yesterday. Today however it impossible to breathe, hundreds and hundreds of light lips, an endless staircase, the same day endlessly. And always live on Friday, and is eternal spring in his hand I write.
eyelashes I grew watching him sleep. You knew his heart was beating a small sea, although they knew to wreck her kisses and childhood. As the people his kisses were full of gossip, and as in the capitals redhead voice changed with each season. You fell in love with the quiet rigor Light entering an empty room of an abandoned house. They put the names of cities to every part of your body oh yeah! and also named orphan tears you to you and your world map and your smile and your prayers and your oh! Ay! you fell when released to the woman by the guillotine in Sebastopol, to hear him shout "Fire!" in the besieged streets of Paris, or perhaps in the S. XVII when you reign in the capital of Desires and outpatient tell you dazzled the home he never knew, or perhaps in Berlin pursued by the SS, or when you peed over eleven years in a religion class, or to escape Ku Klux Virginia Klan contigo; seguramente fuera en un barco de esclavos que partía de Senegal, o cuando le enseñaste a escribir en la Universidad Popular en horario nocturno para inmigrantes.
Siempre te gustaron sus pies con erratas, sus labios incunables, sus olvidos paginados, las dedicatorias que te hacía con las miradas, y los versos que te escribía en la piel, noche tras noche, cada día.
¿Qué piedra no tropezó con esto? ¿Qué río no se ahoga en estas palabras? ¿Qué sol o luna llena no iluminó lo escrito? ¿Qué viento no propagó el rezo? ¿Qué sombra no se abrasó por dentro? ¿Qué camino no dejó de echar a andar su camino? What sea did not reach the end point and take it all for himself?
Everything is full of what does not. And my about me. Love
eyelashes I grew watching him sleep. You knew his heart was beating a small sea, although they knew to wreck her kisses and childhood. As the people his kisses were full of gossip, and as in the capitals redhead voice changed with each season. You fell in love with the quiet rigor Light entering an empty room of an abandoned house. They put the names of cities to every part of your body oh yeah! and also named orphan tears you to you and your world map and your smile and your prayers and your oh! Ay! you fell when released to the woman by the guillotine in Sebastopol, to hear him shout "Fire!" in the besieged streets of Paris, or perhaps in the S. XVII when you reign in the capital of Desires and outpatient tell you dazzled the home he never knew, or perhaps in Berlin pursued by the SS, or when you peed over eleven years in a religion class, or to escape Ku Klux Virginia Klan contigo; seguramente fuera en un barco de esclavos que partía de Senegal, o cuando le enseñaste a escribir en la Universidad Popular en horario nocturno para inmigrantes.
Siempre te gustaron sus pies con erratas, sus labios incunables, sus olvidos paginados, las dedicatorias que te hacía con las miradas, y los versos que te escribía en la piel, noche tras noche, cada día.
¿Qué piedra no tropezó con esto? ¿Qué río no se ahoga en estas palabras? ¿Qué sol o luna llena no iluminó lo escrito? ¿Qué viento no propagó el rezo? ¿Qué sombra no se abrasó por dentro? ¿Qué camino no dejó de echar a andar su camino? What sea did not reach the end point and take it all for himself?
Everything is full of what does not. And my about me. Love
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