I feel their hands
settle the heart,
when it cracks
beats and strong as a
young heart
that
inexperienced
prepares to declare
love.
Stuffed lust secret
simulacrum
existence of unknown
outline wrinkles
of days in vain,
wrapped indecent notes
and tired smiles.
Cursed be your voice,
never fallen angel,
who come to listen and tell me
that life
the morning is barefoot,
that opens up new dances.
Mourners are notes
of these parallel lines
now and always
lead me
the point of no return.
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