Es que tus manos parecen agua, agua de piel agua, tan seguras como las puertas de los secretos. Así me acordaba de sus movimientos. Se quedaban. Se alejaban. Y mientras, pasaba el espeso tiempo por la habitación casi despoblada, tú, lejos, buscándote en un lejano futuro sin viaje de vuelta o sin medios para volver.
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