Si por acaso, a veces, y creo, ciertamente, aunque con duda, me sacudes ese lugar profundo del vacío que has dejado. Por eso en mi cuarto reina tu ausencia. Ausencias de filos pegados a las roturas de la vida. Dentro y desaparecida, fuera y retenida. En este espacio roto vuelan águilas gigantes y negras. Me miran con sus ojos de acero, y piensan: «Pronto el amor estará corrupto, pronto.»
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