Eran calientes los huecos de las estaciones. El parpadeo de la vida, eso. Los brazos abiertos a las horas negras, como muelles del tiempo. Eran nuestras bocas aire y quejas, manar libre del viento. Estuvimos siempre desnudos y juntos, abiertos y mirada. Duele como si ya te hubieses ido y rotas las promesas.
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