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Your slumber and your jealousy are killing me. Your neglect and absence kill me. I am here between the magic of your fingertips before dawn opens his heart and eyes. Do you still remember my beloved, or have travels, the call of dawn, and beautiful women of chance stolen you? Am I still in you like a bird that happily pecked your palm and then flew away so that you would not see its hidden sadness? On this day, I woke up to the rose of my heart between your lips. I felt the lines of your face with a tremor of fear that I would ignite her fleeing life. I saw the pupils of your eyes only to read the distances, the textures, and the seas that you crossed with a closed heart, to land exactly where you were destined to amaze me before you stole me. I saw you at the threshold of fear telling me what was in your heart, before you withdrew: I fear that I will die and not be satisfied with the touch of silk in your soul, nor with the storms of a body that was stolen since the first resurrection, nor with the luminous language that childhood buried in her heart, and closed tightly for fear of getting lost and forgotten. I search for you without fear of me, and I do not know how a lover can be the victim of a dream that he stole while unaware of his grief
