Se nos abren las manos como olas. Se abre la noche bajo los nombres de tu cuerpo. Tomo tu mano para deshilar mi deseo. Tu mirada, tu perfume, tu ribera. Se nos mueven las manos y la boca. Alguna hora se atrasa. Es el verano de la noche, mitad silencios, mitad susurros, mitad carne. Alrededor, la insolente envidia de los objetos.
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