Íbamos cargados de la sal de la noche, cargados de insomnios subterráneos. Y yo, oscuro de ti, tirado en el perfil de tu cama bajo tu vestido, mi débil alma bebía de tu fuente. Compruebas escondida que no tengo tiempo, que se fue huyendo del presente, infame sol-cal-viva. Te disuelves viéndome dejado por la lámina del futuro.
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