En este aire, en esta pena, en el fuerte sabor del recuerdo... Ya sabes que tu pecho es la distancia; esa loca distancia que se prostituye sola. Herida tengo. Ausencia de aire. Perdida de abrazos. En este deslumbrante amor deshabitado. En los tejados del invierno. En las hierbas del tiempo. En las orillas son tus dedos agua.
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