Y a veces con tu belleza en los fulgurantes nudos despoblados. Largas eran las cadenas de nuestras manos rotas. A veces bosque. A veces mañana. A veces brazos desgranados. Echaban nuestros dedos raíces en la oscuridad del mundo tambaleante. Contábamos nuestras dudas sobre las partes de nuestro cuerpo. Y cuando al beso toca, nos hacíamos dolor para consolarnos.
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