Cuando paso por el museo de tus manos, son las marcas del invisible tiempo que hacen señales. Tal vez sea tu red y aliento. Tal vez cerca de tu rumor garabateo. Quisiera ser olfato de tus palabras. Regresar insomne a tu cuerpo. Ser camino de tus manos y sombra. Ser perfume de tus ojos cerrados. Quisiera ser la clave con la que te sostengo, tu tatuaje, tu amor y tu sexo.
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