|
WAITING ROOM.
Where
the
engaged
earth
was.
Where
the
bread
incentive
was,
cofortable,
redeemer.
Where
the
dawn
was
born
after
an
upset
night,
painful,
perspired.
Where
air
was
breathed
and
I
fell
asleep
calm.
Where
the
place
was
that
so
much
had
been
looking
for.
Where
the
most
pretentious
metaphor
it
didn't
arrive
him
neither
to
the
checks
to
the
overwhelming
,
winner,
savior
reality.
Where
newly
they
began
to
make
sense
all
the
words,
since
anyone
of
them
your
name
screamed
with
fanfares,
or
in
silence.
Where
the
Magdalena
was
sorry,
where
L�zaro
resuscitated,
where
was
the
second
opportunity
and
it
was
worthwhile
begin
again.
Where
it
was
paralyzed
the
pain,
where
the
pain
died
from
boredom,
where
it
was
eaten
away
of
nerves
the
liver
to
the
solitude.
Where
your
tears
were
lagoons
calms
that
they
desired
my
tired
legs.
Where
your
language
it
gave
pass
to
the
unavoidable
close
contact
and
this
to
the
symphony
of
beats
hasty
of
our
hearts.
Where
finally
the
battle
ended
and
I
found
my
place
in
the
podium.
Where
the
laurels
of
a
good
time
for
all
they
didn't
pass
of
side,
but
rather
they
stayed
with
me
to
make
me
company
at
nights.
Where
you
were
-
in
definitive
-
waiting.
Waiting
for
me
for
so
much
time.
DESTINATIONS.
Strange
thing
this
destination.
To
think
that
we
had
that
to
give
so
many
turns
unconscious,
getting
dizzy
and
injuring
somewhere
around,
to
finish
crossing
by
chance
one
of
those
nights
and
only
to
look
at
us
to
the
eyes
to
recognize
us
opposing.
If
I
am
figured
that
from
the
uterus
that
I
miss
you
and
I
walk
you
looking
for,
without
looking
for
you.
If
I
am
figured
that
I
grew
missing
you,
collecting
pieces
of
other
meats,
trying
to
arm
your
puzzle,
basing
me
on
the
Love`s
image
that
I
have
recorded
in
the
memory
from
before
the
beginning
of
my
existence.
Strange
thing
this
destination.
To
think
that
we
kneel
down
before
so
many
crossings
that
we
believed
necessary
in
that
moment,
to
think
that
we
had
ourselves
that
to
drink
the
tears
of
to
liters,
of
to
drums,
becoming
strong
awaiting
receiving
the
beating,
thinking
that
everything
was
already
clever,
and
we
finish
being,
recognizing
us
at
first
sight,
for
the
pain
that
hung
of
the
tired
eyes
from
being
looking
for
without
looking
for,
surprised
as
if
we
had
seen
a
ghost
of
ourselves
crossing
in
our
road.
Strange
thing
this
destination.
To
think
that
we
had
to
make
finger
in
so
many
and
so
many
routes
that
they
bear
us,
and
now
that
we
are
we
have
to
tremble,
frightened
by
the
idea,
that
this
miracle
be
only
a
hallucination
of
another
of
the
so
many
sick
nights,
that
is
to
say
only
a
temporary
incentive,
that
relaxes
our
cramped
muscles,
to
be
able
to
continue
walking
alone
another
time.
NOSTALGIAS OF DAWN.
In
my
own
universe
you
would
represent
my
external
world,
with
the
luminous
freedom
of
your
hair,
the
provocative
energy
of
your
look,
the
morbid
irreverence
of
your
lips.
And
me
my
interior
world,
with
their
labyrinths
of
low
heights,
of
walls
that
close
and
bridges
that
are
broken.
Surely
two
constantly
faced
worlds,
antagonistic,
incompatible.
Only
two
alone
worlds,
that
they
only
wait
that
the
moon
return
night
the
sky
and
it
crowns
her
for
for
once
to
be
eclipsed
in
an
explosion
of
orgasms
hidden
in
sheets,
fastened
fire
of
humidity.
Only
two
alone
worlds
that
they
face
and
they
are
spited
a
sidelong
glance,
that
they
are
caressed
from
time
to
time
with
fear
and
one
dreams
only
and
invulnerable
and,
until
they
end
up
missing,
when
the
dawn
is
nostalgia.
THE LIST OF REASONS.
The
reasons
have
more
than
enough.
They
are
the
two
hours
that
we
wait
the
86
at
night,
in
the
middle
of
field
and
with
desires
of
raining.
They
are
the
words
that
got
lost
in
some
dialogue
without
importance,
after
making
love.
They
are
the
caresses
that
your
fingers
spread
for
my
back
when
I
was
sleeping.
They
are
your
barefoot
steps
that
you
didn't
end
up
hearing
leaving
the
shower.
It
is
the
fifth,
sixth,
seventh
kiss
of
the
afternoon.
It
is
the
image
of
your
back
inclined
while
you
tie
up
the
cords.
It
is
the
little
of
yerba
that
it
was
wasted
while
you
fed
the
third
mate
pava.
It
is
the
scent
of
the
street
that
we
already
know
by
heart.
It
is
the
moment
in
that
Telef�nica
gives
us
more
two
minutes
to
speak
with
20
cents.
It
is
the
laugh
that
you
started
up
of
an
absurd
comment
about
Per�n.
It
is
a
flower
of
the
street
that
it
went
to
stop
to
your
hands.
It
is
the
peso
with
twenty-five
that
it
is
necessary
to
join
for
the
bus,
cent
by
cent.
It
is
the
Sunday's
wait
or
of
the
while
that
has
more
minutes
to
be
together.
It
is
to
see
the
messy
bed
and
to
feel
the
room
with
scent,
it
is
to
throw
the
last
condom
to
the
garbage.
It
is
to
see
you
when
you
leave
and
to
return
fifteen
blocks
walking
alone.
It
is
to
imagine
that
you
will
be
making,
imagining
in
the
same
moment.
They
are
the
kisses
that
I
miss
when
I
don't
sleep,
the
words
that
you
would
say,
as
you
would
leave
without
encouragement
until
to
the
walls.
It
is
to
dream
you
for
an
instant,
splendid
and
radiant,
made
of
that
that
you
are
of
meat
and
soul,
and
looks
and
desires.
It
is
to
know
that
all
this
is
the
only
things
that
I
need:
the
list
of
reasons
that
I
have
more
than
enough
and
they
force
me
to
start
this
tired
motor
my
heart,
to
give
birth
to
some
words
that
fifty-fifty
at
least
they
reflect
the
paradise
to
which
you
drove
me
with
reasons
so
simple,
so
obvious,
so
celestial
and
necessary,
as
this
the
one
of
being
part
of
my
history
without
more
reasons
that
the
one
that
comes
off
for
the
simple
fact
of
remaining
to
my
side,
always
to
my
side.
MIRACLES.
If
I
was
granted
a
miracle,
if
for
a
moment
I
stopped
to
be
only
these
fifty
kilos
of
meat
and
I
became
in
two
magic
hands
,
capable
of
disdrawing
this
daily,
tedious,
ordinary
history.
If
I
was
granted
the
miracle...
Then,
it
would
only
be
necessary
me
to
steal
a
scratch
of
your
beauty,
towards
similar
shade
to
paint
this
village
with
your
colors,
filling
with
springs
this
avenue
without
suns,
without
flowers,
with
hunger
and
crying`s
desires.
If
I
was
granted
a
miracle,
the
illuminated
moment
that
I
wait
for
so
many
years
and
I
stopped
to
be
example
of
mediocrity,
to
become
eagle
that
it
rests
their
wings
in
the
stream
of
your
lips.
If
I
was
granted
the
miracle,
able
to
return
this
solitude
in
nightmare
unaware
to
me,
able
to
return
this
poetry
in
fact.
I
would
no
longer
be
necessary
reason
that
they
thrill
neither
pills
to
dream.
I
would
know
that
of
meat
it
would
be
made
the
sky,
the
paradise
that
they
promised
me
so
many
years
ago
and
newly
today
encounter
-
by
pure
chance
-
hidden
and
radiant
behind
your
eyes.
WHILE YOU KISS ME.
I
won't
allow
him
neither
to
God
to
that
spies,
neither
to
the
devil
to
that
mixes
their
language
of
neighboring
mob.
I
won't
leave
not
even
to
the
air
that
it
only
moves
a
hair,
threatening
of
death
until
the
silence
so
that
it
is
still.
I
will
make
until
the
impossible
thing
to
brake
the
course
of
the
things,
forcing
until
the
earth
to
that
doesn't
rotate,
as
long
as
the
clock
don't
only
squander
a
second.
I
will
insult
to
who
is
necessary,
and
to
hit
who
is
opposed.
I
will
make
that
you
feel
sure,
submissive
and
employer
among
my
arms,
not
allowing
him
neither
to
my
blood
to
that
it
loses
temper.
Be
sure.
I
will
make
all
the
necessary
one
so
that
anything
comes
out
bad,
neither
it
ruins
it.
I
will
be
almighty.
While
you
kiss
me
I
will
control
everything,
for
you
are
only
my
property,
in
the
eternal
space
that
it
leaves
that
instant,
that
as
a
dream
the
risk
runs
of
disappearing,
another
time.
DAUGHTER FOR ACCIDENT.
You
will
be
what
they
want
that
you
are
with
my
voice
and
my
face
and
part
of
my
lament.
And
you
will
have
of
everything
and
how
much
it
plays
you
some
each,
but
you
won't
be
you,
definitively
not,
but
who
they
name
you
and
how
they
name
you.
And
I
will
leave
you
that
you
are
what
they
want,
protesting
if
it
is
that
one
can
to
alive
voice
or
in
silence,
recognizing
you
in
my
way
when
I
notices
in
your
eyes
my
insomnia
and
let
us
be
quiet,
adopting
you
as
my
daughter
for
accident,
when
for
my
bowel
you
leave
as
looking
for
air
and
leave
for
the
life.
THE DAY THAT YOU ARE NOT.
This
body
will
become
in
clown's
dressed
ghost,
that
it
walks
for
an
undressed
earth
where
the
cactus
and
the
snakes
laugh
from
him
when
happening.
This
present
will
be
memory
of
the
forgetfulness
that
arrives
with
delay
and
it
lights
the
television,
to
see
that
the
climate
of
this
winter
is
low
zero.
Maybe
a
sad
image
will
be
to
see
these
sheets
wrinkled
in
a
laundry
machine
without
water,
to
feel
that
the
blood
dries
off
on
the
floor,
to
know
that
there
is
not
remedy
for
the
defeat.
But,
on
all
the
things,
the
worst
thing
will
be
to
fall
in
bill
that
the
heart
is
an
army
of
lazys
singing
drunkards
under
the
rain
old
love`s
songs,
and
that,
the
vol�men
of
the
silence
sounding
inside
these
walls
without
you
it
is
maddeningly
deafening.
HUMAN CELESTIAL.
In
your
perfumed
smile
of
innocence,
in
your
eyes
rejoicing,
in
your
made
up
lashes,
in
each
one
of
your
hair,
of
your
fingernails,
of
your
teeth.
In
your
fingers
that
make
the
impossible
thing
to
arrive
every
day
a
step
further
on
of
my
madness,
in
your
arms
in
your
legs
that
they
hug
me.
In
the
pale
whiteness
of
all
your
skin.
In
the
three
or
four
small
freckles
that
constantly
you
observe
yourself
in
the
mirror.
In
your
lips,
your
language,
your
palate.
In
your
breasts,
remedy
of
my
soul,
in
your
white
paunch
that
it
receives
me
as
to
an
abandoned
one,
a
hungry
beggar.
In
all
that
I
told
you
and
in
all
that
I
forget
to
tell
you,
in
you
everything.
I
find
you,
angel,
being
myself
in
the
crazy
crossroad
of
your
celestial
humanity,
had
of
auras.
I
find
you,
being,
the
sufficiently
dirty
thing
as
to
beg
you
the
Love
that
with
an
unique
human
kindness
you
give
me,
without
I
requests
it
to
you,
making
me
feel
an
elect.
MINE, YOURS, OUR.
When
it
is
drained
the
sand
of
this
clock
and
arrive
the
hour
of
the
final
distribution,
I
am
sure
that
each
one
it
will
be
taken
of
the
other
one
exactly
what
doesn't
correspond
.
We
will
be
filled
this
way
of
your
hates
and
my
bad
habits,
to
finish
groaning
at
the
little
time,
in
other
beds,
with
another
people
the
bad
time
that
we
passed
it
when
we
made
of
the
LOVE
a
virtue
particularly
our.
PART OF THE SECRET.
For
you,
that
knows
part
of
the
secret
and
fill
up
of
kisses
my
mouth
undercover.
For
you,
that
yes
knows
as
fastening
fire
a
hotel
bed
and
you
allow
me
to
ride
a
cloud
and
to
navigate
the
sea
of
your
look,
amid
the
blindness
unavoidable
of
a
spasm
that
it
is
broken
in
the
middle
of
the
night.
For
you,
that
you
have
of
gold
the
heart
and
not
you
denies
to
share
it
with
me,
putting
wings
to
my
backs.
Telling
me
dirty
words,
sweetening
me
the
hearings.
For
you,
that
you
take
a
bath
of
blood
the
yolks
of
my
fingers
that
they
write
you
this
poem,
that
it
was
always
yours.
For
you,
woman,
that
you
knows
part
of
the
secret
for
you
I
write,
to
give
you
my
heart
in
some
way,
become
uneven
letters,
maybe,
so
that
when
you
support
your
head
in
some
pillow,
far
from
me,
it
accompanies
you
and
it
veils
you
the
dream
this,
my
soul
trapped
in
the
bars
of
your
magic
smile.
ASHY.
The
most
probable
thing,
it
is
that
the
day
fewer
thought,
be
not
late
in
arriving
the
inopportune
one
that
is
captivated
us
in
flames
this
whole
created
paradise.
The
matter
will
be
to
be
cautious,
not
with
tear
water
to
beat
the
fire,
but
with
a
fire
smile
in
the
eyes
to
contemplate
with
serenity
and
until
with
much
of
jeer
as
our
laurels
they
become
ASHY.
Ashy
capable
of
redeeming
the
opportunity
of
again
begin
again.
LITTLE PART.
I
will
stay
with
the
film
piece
that
more
injure
me.
I
will
keep
the
scene
of
your
taken
a
bath
breasts
of
moon,
saying
loves
you
in
my
hands,
while
the
rain
fell
and,
behind
an
old
truck,
we
didn't
make
more
that
to
kiss
us
desperate
as
if
God
it
was
about
to
send
the
sign,
so
that
everything
leaves
to
the
fuck
of
a
moment
to
another.
I
will
stay
with
the
most
painful
part
in
this
history,
I
will
keep
that
little
bit
of
scent
to
you
that
I
conserve
still
in
my
sheets,
the
same
one
that
today
inspired
me
this
poem
and
that
yesterday
last
night
made
me
cry
and
not
to
find
comfort,
not
even
in
the
memory
of
your
absent
arms,
those
that
were
able
to
revive
to
a
dead,
or
of
killing
of
love
until
the
most
sceptical
of
the
human
species.
DESIRE.
That
you
appear
of
the
nothingness,
that
you
don't
have
more
excuses
that
to
be
part
of
a
miracle.
That
you
surprise
me
with
so
much
accidental.
That
you
come
closer
toward
me,
that
it
is
only
necessary
you
to
deploy
your
magic
hand
on
my
ripped
back
so
that
everything
begin
to
make
sense,
sense
to
have
you.
That
you
sigh
me
near
the
hearing
and
only
say
it
was
already
hour
from
now
on
not
more
delays
and,
without
I
ends
up
listening
to
you,
already
have
your
mouth
on
my
chest
swallowing
my
your
beats.
That
anything
stops
you,
neither
my
supplications
neither
those
of
the
destination.
That
you
are
only
you
this
tangle
of
sensations
made
of
illusion
and
reality
and
enter
in
my
bed
and
you
pull
up
me
of
this
trap
getting
tied
up
to
your
deceit.
And,
once
you
melt,
be
no
longer
fantasy,
so
that
tomorrow,
when
I
tries
to
wake
up,
be
not
but
you
the
one
that
you
serve
me
the
breakfast
amid
the
dream.
And
I
no
longer
need
to
clip
pieces
of
past
to
console
my
present
without
future,
but
rather
it
is
your
existence
the
only
measure
of
time
that
it
governs
the
eternity
that
it
affords
the
fact
of
living
under
the
help
of
your
wings,
on
your
heat
of
your
lips,
and
to
the
side
of
your
woman
body
sleeping
in
the
same
one
mattress
that
me,
heart.
SOUP OF HEART.
You
thought
that
it
was
definitive.
For
that
reason
you
didn't
doubt
in
giving
me
a
tear,
the
souvenir
that
I
lacked
to
give
its
the
final
touch
to
the
shelf
of
your
memories.
You
didn't
imagine
that
the
faces
multiplied
with
the
pain,
and
they
walk
down
the
street
to
the
overdraft
and
in
hours
of
the
day
without
nobody
says
anything.
I
don't
accuse
you,
I
know
that
you
didn't
make
it
with
wickedness.
You
thought
that
it
would
be
easy
to
forget,
to
come
undone
of
the
weight
of
your
cross
for
relieve
my
life,
for
that
reason
you
threw
-
symbolically
and
not
-
all
our
history
to
the
garbage
before
my
eyes,
and
you
kept
the
paper
of
bad,
only
so
that
I
am
made
easier
when
not
having
the
blame.
But,
well
it
is
known,
that
your
voice
is
not
yours
overalls
when
you
are
not,
and
your
words
they
were
in
all
mouth
I
kissed
and
not,
but
it
was
not
that
your
intention,
for
that
reason
I
follow
you
forgiving.
The
only
thing
that
I
recriminate
you
it
is
that
you
were
a
petulant
little
bit.
You
believed
yourself
that
you
knew
enough
about
the
solitude
and
you
made
a
mistake.
You
thought
that
leaving
you
would
save
me
and
we
all
know
that
to
this
ship
it
doesn't
take
out
it
to
anybody
it
floats.
You
thought
that
the
solitude
it
would
be
good
partner
but,
neither
I
marry,
it
is
so
no
wordy
and
left,
and
until
it
has
jealousies
and
it
arms
me
scandals
such
which
made
it
you.
You
thought
that
it
was
definitive,
for
that
reason
you
moved
away
from
my
life
so
that
I
didn't
have
that
to
take
the
responsibility
for
both.
But,
what
you
didn't
know
it
was
that
when
saying
good-bye,
not
only
you
didn't
leave
but
rather
on
the
contrary
you
would
reproduce.
Now,
I
am
indebted
until
the
balls,
I
work
to
double
shift
and
I
don't
have
enough
neither
it
stops
cigarrettes.
I
don't
only
have
to
think
in
me
and
in
you
like
before,
but
rather
also
in
the
other
four
thousand
forms
in
the
one
that
fears
you
appear.
And,
you
will
understand,
that
with
so
many
mouths
to
feed
there
is
not
pocket
that
resists
neither
heart
soup
that
it
reaches.
IT GLOWS.
Don't
make
you
echo
of
the
gray
of
the
street,
of
the
slow
one
to
run
of
the
hours,
of
that
weighed
that
they
are
accustomed
to
to
fall
the
tears.
It
glows,
take
out
its
the
shine
to
your
armor.
It
shines
at
least
for
a
moment,
that
it
never
forgets
the
birth
of
a
star,
with
the
feet
dirty
of
mire.
Don't
allow
you
to
take
for
the
river
of
silences
that
it
razes
to
the
city
while
it
rests
its
heavy
dream.
It
glows,
that
it
never
fades
in
the
memory
the
radiance
of
having
been
-
although
it
is
a
single
time
-
the
light
that
woke
up
the
insomnia
of
someone.
Be
not
afraid.
It
is
not
only
to
live.
Take
a
risk,
don't
stay
out
looking
ago
as
other
it
or
waiting
that
other
one
cheers
up.
Give
its
sense
to
this
ordinary
one
and
boring
hobby
in
this
earth.
Take
out
its
juice
to
your
existence.
It
glows,
it
is
worthwhile.
THE DEPARTURE OF AN ANGEL.
Dry
off
that
tear
and
that
neither
you
are
happened
to
allow
to
escape
a
sigh.
Only
turn
up,
display
your
wings
and
fly.
Splendid
fly
and
smoothly
toward
the
clouds.
And
when
you
arrive
there,
look
for
it
to
God
and
comment
him
that
you
failed
him.
Tell
him
that
in
the
Earth
you
knew
how
to
laugh
and
you
caressed
heights
higher
than
their
domains,
maybe.
Tell
him
that
until
it
was
necessary
to
suffer
to
know
like
that
tastes
the
smell
of
the
provocatively
forbidden,
and
that
you
learned
to
groan
of
happiness.
Tell
that
you
failed
him,
that
when
arriving
at
this
planet
you
fell
in
love
with
a
not
well
clean
lazy
so
similar
to
this
that
he
writes
you
-although
without
the
pain
of
dogs
in
their
eyes,
that
it
left
him
this
almost
obligatory
departure.
-
Ask
for
apologizes
,
the
old
one
goes
you
that
is
to
understand,
and
once
you
make
it
stay
to
his
side,
or
be
devoted
to
play
the
harp
for
the
clouds,
but
neither
you
are
happened
to
lower
another
time.
Non
know,
the
sadly
bad
produced
that
they
are
the
second
parts
of
these
typical
romantics
novels.
Stay
there,
listen
to
me,
hide
behind
a
cloud,
and,
if
you
wants,
to
kill
the
boring
celestial
time,
observe.
Observe
like
this
simple
lazy
every
night
it
is
intoxicated
remembering
that
once
it
was
to
point
of
joining
sky
and
earth
in
oneself
scenario:
This
bed
of
two
squares
that
it
still
has
to
finish
paying
-
in
comfortable
quotas
of
other
people's
blood
and
heavy
tears
as
mercury.
-
SLEPT WIHT ME.
Allow
me
to
count
to
the
world
that
it
sometimes
rains
gold
behind
the
window.
Allow
me
to
count
it
that
sometimes
the
night
has
so
many
lights
that
until
the
winter
it
seems
New
Year.
Allow
me
to
be
almighty,
indestructible,
eternal.
Allow
me
to
write
the
song
that
I
didn't
write
still,
that
that
I
hum
by
heart
only
for
your
hearing
and
then
me
the
forgetfulness.
Allow
me
to
become
in
bird,
in
angel,
in
giant's
sigh.
Allow
me
to
be
owner
of
the
moment.
Allow
me
to
be
a
visionary
one,
that
between
your
legs
I
find
the
secret,
that
between
your
lips
I
find
the
secret,
that
between
your
eyes
I
find
the
secret.
For
for
once
for
all
to
be
able
to
count
to
the
world
(with
the
security
that
grants
the
wisdom
of
your
letters)
that
it
is
sometimes
possible.
Be
good,
grant
me
a
desire.
SLEPT
WITH
ME.
So
that
if
tomorrow
again
wake
up
alone
to
be
able
to,
at
least,
to
keep
the
memory
of
your
postcards
of
the
paradise.
So
that
if
tomorrow
wake
up
to
your
side
to
be
able
to
convince
me
that
the
whole
pain
of
this
childbirth
it
made
sense.
And
this
way,
in
the
way
that
was,
with
you
or
without
you,
starting
from
tomorrow
I
can
to
be
devoted
to
sream
for
the
world
that
the
LOVE
exists
and
it
shares
a
giant
poster
with
the
letters
of
your
name.
I
know
good.
Don't
leave
me
with
this
desperation
that
it
brings
harnessed
the
ignorance
and
the
burning
desire
of
wanting
to
know
what
there
is
further
on
of
this
silence.
Grant
me
a
desire.
You
slept
with
me
tonight
and
let
us
return
metaphor
what
anyone
would
see
as
a
simple
one
rest
of
the
day
-
in
this
city
unaware
to
my
misfortune
or
to
my
happiness
-.
Let
us
return
poetry
this
shared
pillow
and
let
us
take
place
with
a
HYMN
OF
WAILINGS
the
triumphant
retreat
of
this
solitude,
(so
that
at
least
for
a
moment
don't
make
worse
of
the
one
that
has
already
made).
THE GUARDIAN OF YOUR TEARS.
I
only
wanted
you
to
give
me
the
possibility
to
love
you
and
that
made,
for
that
reason
it
was
not
necessary
me
to
request
you
an
illusion
in
exchange
for
my
good
sense,
because,
without
you
realized,
slowly
I
deshumanized
you
to
the
point
of
taking
off
until
the
gift
of
loving
inclusive
to
me.
Then,
you
only
wanted
that
I
love
you
and
that
made,
for
that
reason
it
was
not
necessary
you
to
request
me
the
life
in
exchange
for
a
tear,
because
I
had
already
given
it
to
you,
and
the
tear
I
took
off
it
and
I
stayed
it,
without
you
realized,
one
night
in
that
curled
up
in
a
mattress
we
multiply
our
souls.
Now
then,
let
us
follow
the
treatment
as
until
this
moment
so
that
nobody
wounded
finish.
I
promise
to
be
the
guardian
of
your
tears
until
the
day
that
you
decide
not
to
take
care
more
than
my
life.
The
day
in
that
you
humanize
yourself
again
and
I
am
again
-as
consequent
-
the
beggar
of
love
that
I
was
before
knowing
you.
I KNEW THAT YOU WERE NOT.
It
was
not
only
for
the
heat
of
the
one
that
my
sheets
lacked
at
three
thirty
of
the
dawn,
neither
for
your
perfume
of
the
one
which
still
they
conserved
a
vague
scent.
I
knew
that
you
were
no
longer,
when
everything,
absolutely
everything,
it
became
in
against
mine,
as
a
strange
ethylic
dream.
Suddenly
the
very
dry
branches
of
all
the
dead
trees
they
began
slowly
to
come
closer
to
the
grooves
of
my
windows,
the
t.v.
didn't
take
in
flashing
color
and
sprinkles
with
the
face
that
it
went
and
it
came
of
my
hope
crying
in
stereo,
while
the
moon
gingerly
it
went
hiding
behind
the
buildings.
I
knew
that
you
were
no
longer
and
with
the
little
thing
that
I
stayed
of
soul
and
forces,
I
tried
to
escape
from
myself,
hiding
behind
my
bowel.
But
everything
seemed
useless.
The
seats
began
to
walk
toward
me
with
their
scatterbrained
look,
of
the
walls
it
began
to
flow
blood
that
it
went
becoming
snow
when
falling
to
the
floor,
and
the
yellow
of
the
lamp
it
began
to
hysterical
twinkle.
Until
the
penurious
puppets
of
up
of
shelf
they
smiled
sarcastic
when
being
panicky,
trying
to
cover
with
these
broken
sheets,
rotten
of
absences.
I
knew
that
you
were
not,
it
was
not
only
for
the
caresses
that
they
missed
my
skin,
neither
for
your
kisses
that
has
saved
me
of
being
victim
of
any
hallucination.
I
knew
that
you
were
not
when
realizing
that
everything,
absolutely
everything,
they
became
in
my
against
when
the
solitude
was
reality.
I
knew
that
you
were
not
and
that
it
was
really
unavoidable.
For
that
reason
of
anything
has
served
me
to
cry,
and
my
eyes
remained
open
until
the
death
disguised
of
dawn
it
happened
to
my
fatigue
and
it
slept
me
panicky,
cold,
wet
of
emptiness
and
without
you.
INSIDE OF THE SKIN.
I
could
be
devoted
to
count
the
stars,
to
make
Chinese
shades.
It
could
send
a
curr�culum
to
the
NASA,
requesting
the
position
of
cared
sweeper
from
South
America.
It
would
not
to
rot
into
a
ball
and
to
wind
in
a
ball
a
thousand
times
a
hank
of
100
kilos
of
wool,
singing
"la
felicidad
jajaja."
It
could
remove
the
spider's
webs
of
the
square,
to
disinfect
the
toilet
and
the
bidet,
to
hit
him
one
washed
to
the
glasses
of
the
window.
I
could
make
a
course
of
marionettes,
of
kitchen,
of
mime,
of
yoga
in
some
center
cultural
mire.
I
could
make
flexions
of
arms,
to
read
the
Bible
or
the
phone
guide,
drugged.
It
could
recite
poetry
for
an
absent
public.
I
could
enter
inside
the
skin.
It
could
calculate
each
how
much
it
passes
the
community
bus
for
the
door
of
my
house,
after
twelve
in
the
night.
It
could
be
happy
thinking
that
I
am
a
cat
that
it
wanders
for
the
terraces
awaiting
the
unavoidable
shot.
It
could
suppose
that
I
believe
in
God,
or
that
at
some
time
we
are
in
the
paradise
again.
It
could
send
several
letters
to
Susana's
program,
to
see
if
at
some
time
in
my
life
I
win
something.
I
could
imagine
I
undress
crossing
the
Nueve
de
Julio.
It
could
leave
to
look
for
work
of
bricklayer's
peon,
or
of
ch�
pibe
in
an
agency
of
Remises.
I
could
fall
in
love
with
a
mannequin.
I
could
be
let
a
porno.
Woman's
dress
could
come
out
to
give
turns
to
the
apple.
I
could
fight
with
my
shade
and
to
tell
him
sews
ridiculous.
I
could
go
to
a
disco
and
to
dance
up
of
a
speaker
with
a
poster
that
it
says
"I
AM
REALLY
TO
THE
FART
IN
THE
WORLD."
I
could
enter
inside
the
skin.
I
could
go
saving
me
some
pesos
buying
the
new
promo
of
Coca
Cola.
I
could
say
that
I
am
Superman
and
to
throw
me
from
the
balcony
to
see
if
I
fly.
I
could
sit
down
to
meditate.
Go
to
pray
to
the
Church
of
Luj�n
sentences
known
by
heart.
I
could
buy
me
a
note
of
the
Loto
awaiting
that
the
fortune
hit
my
door.
A
prostitute
could
get
me
for
$15.
I
could
leave
me
the
rastas
and
to
put
on
makeup
of
black,
or
to
become
Jew,
Mormon,
vegetarian,
drogadict,
skinhead,
punk,
concheto,
esotheric
hippie,
serial
killer,
pacifist,
Indians
defender,
feminist,
police.
It
could
depress
me
with
the
sentimental
problems
of
the
Suller,
to
be
happy
because
one
comes
the
Christmas,
to
feel
indignant
because
they
boycotted
us
the
final
one
of
the
World
cup
of
the
'
90,
when
to
the
Diego
they
cut
him
the
legs.
Or
I
could
enter
inside
the
skin,
and
to
remain
immobile
stopping
my
look
in
a
fixed
point
of
the
night.
I
could
masturbate.
I
could
see
that
they
give
for
Cable.
I
could
take
the
bus
until
the
Correo
Central
and
to
go
for
a
walk
for
the
Center.
I
could
smile
for
the
picture.
It
could
be
still
holding
back
the
breathing.
I
could
eat
watermelon
with
wine.
I
could
be
free
in
a
dream
of
pills
or
of
drinks.
I
could
write
poetry.
I
could
present
me
in
a
movie
producer
to
make
the
version
Argentina
and
b-class
of
Romeo
without
Julieta
for
budget
lack.
I
could
lock
in
an
asylum.
It
could
accuse
me
with
the
police
for
a
crime
invented
for
the
occasion.
It
could
chain
me
to
the
bed.
Or
I
could
enter
inside
the
skin
and
to
remain
immobile
during
the
whole
time
that
it
is
necessary
until
this
whole
pain
decreased
with
the
eyes
and
the
lids
toward
inside,
so
that
neither
the
walls
find
out
that
in
the
bottom
I
bleed
in
a
forlorn
cry.
DYING SLOWLY.
And
now
how
I
explain
to
it
to
this
silly
heart,
that
this
whole
absurd
game
it
was
written
this
way
from
a
principle.
And
now
how
I
explain
to
it
that
it
was
lie
the
eternity
to
your
side,
the
perpetuity
of
your
encouragement,
the
immortality
of
your
kisses.
If
I
don't
still
know
how
to
tell
it
don't
lose
the
hopes,
knowingly
that
everything
is
completed.
If
I
don't
still
know
how
to
brake
it,
when
scatterbrained
for
your
absence
it
rushes
against
the
storm
and
it
tries
to
take
a
bath
to
wake
up,
of
what
supposes
a
nightmare,
too
similar
to
the
reality.
If
I
still
know
not
even
how
to
suggest
it,
that
it
leaves
making
to
the
idea
that
maybe
some
day
be
only
patrimony
of
the
memory.
Tell
me,
tell
me
how
I
explain
to
it
to
this
silly
heart,
similar
tangle
of
feelings,
similar
divine
lie.
How
I
put
it
in
the
head,
that
non
fuck
to
any
god,
but
that
they
were
this
way
flings
the
cards
ahead
of
time?
How
I
explain
to
it
that
all
this
serves
it
as
experience,
that
this
whole
time
it
was
not
lost,
that
this
whole
history
it
was
not
in
vain,
but
rather
it
was
a
bridge
between
a
stage
and
another
of
the
same
life?
If
I
don't
still
know
how
to
contain
it,
among
so
much
fright
and
surprise
that
is
taken
to
newspaper.
If
I
don't
still
know
how
to
calm
it.
Lying
it
that
still
it
is
something
to
fight,
while
I
am
weakened
with
each
successive
beating.
If
every
time
that
I
attempt
to
open
the
mouth
to
suggest
it
that
maybe
some
day
you
are
not,
it
swears
me
that
of
Love
it
dies.
How
I
tell
it,
tell
me
how
I
tell
him,
that
it
was
not
it,
neither
the
circumstances,
but
the
destination
that
it
wanted
this
way
it.
That
your
absence
is
not
temporary,
that
you
follow
it
wanting
but
there
far,
that
you
crossed
the
bridge
and
you
will
never
forget
him,
that
you
didn't
get
tired
of
their
to
beat
old
but
rather
simply
a
new
heart
anything
never
comes
bad.
How
do
I
tell
it
to
it?,
tell
me
how
I
tell
it
to
it.
If
every
time
that
I
try
to
suggest
it
that
maybe
some
day
you
are
not,
it
swears
that
it
dies
from
love.
How
I
tell
it,
that
you
already
left?,
without
dying
slowly
knowingly
of
what
I
am
killing
of
a
tug.
DEDICATED
ESPECIALLY
TO:
Beto,
to
attend
me
from
further
on
of
the
stars.
|