When morning is done in the forest of your lips

 When morning is done in the forest of your lips, erase the cloudy night, love rises to the eyelashes, awaken the avid dreams. And veins like a bouquet of flowers. Bouquet of intentions on the border of the sometimes you exist, sometimes too. Like the beginning of existing. Like the moment that inhabits us. Tell me something about the borders; of the hours that run there. From the borders of the hours! You exist. You don't exist between a second and a second. Sigh interval. Or maybe of the absence forever. That vertigo absorbs like a huge black mouth.