Me daban tus ojos como para volver al campo, al campo de tus manos, a tu pradera. Sabías amar como temporada. Te estaba leyendo y vi tu alma irregular. Vi árboles vecinos. Vi una rama amarga, manchas, vientres. Vi los dientes afilados de tu ausencia. Pretendí rugir como algo prohibido, algo vago que no empezaba. Supuse que no estabas.
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