No he hecho nada ante la duda que encarnas. Estuve llevándome a la boca espacios vacíos de las ganas rotas. Y ahora, palabras muertas y cementerios. Tuve que llamar a tu puerta donde la hierba había crecido. Nunca estabas, o no abrías, o nada. Volví buscando las juntas de las calles. Caminaban las puertas que no veía. Tropezaba con la soledad.
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