painted moon that it cleared forever in the shade, promises of love and words.



A strangled breath grazes me the lips, under this to pursue of hands and words, above this bench that reflects him to the moon and me that I touch me and I make me touch. As it was a dense rain in autumn, that bathes me the hair, the neck, the lips, on my light cloth to form of breast, on the skin rippled by the wind that it blows.



They are needles of pine that the heart punctures, leaves of laurel from it stuffed crowns, they are men, I feel them, that the head they shake, and they wonder incredulous because I make me touch, but if they knew thing instead it burns here inside, a desire ever tames intact in the time, that withers and then it dies when the aspect, and my whiter skin starts to decay, and he/she takes the odor of hay and cats, because nobody in the years has me more call for name

There are of the old ones that the line does, because they know that to this time I let me touch, to make to pass more in hurry this sunset, to feel that breath that the neck heated me, and today both tomorrow and attends him shorter. There are some others, I feel them, that do from escort, and they wait mute over the hedge, convinced what time, I will have again soon instantly need of other capacious hands, of saliva denser than softens every night and the dawn that it kills every elegant of dream.



Because the love that I had doesn't remember my name and me that aspect those capacious hands, among the so many the alone ones that he/she anchors memory, and sure I would recognize among the so many every evening, because other I don't have for being able to see him/it, to be able to distinguish him/it when the sunset falls.



DES