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I owe it to you another
life, another avenue
where the lines manage to converge
and bend the cynicism of the curves,
the sullen listlessness of belonging to each other.
I also owe you a
handful of breaths,
a look filled with eyes
and that hand which
has enraptured caresses
-who knows if you remember the subtle touch-.
Of what there is, if
there is, little remains
a tomorrow gathered among branches, glass
which has stopped recounting
light,
I who love you and
would never stop.