Your whispers call me,
write the prophecies that die
on my skin. I overflow in concave,
flexible moments where everything
I have invented about you fits.
I never find the tender caravan of fans
with which you cover your body,
or the mutual days of ecstasies
in the spaces of time. The reason hides
in the shape of a bronze stone man.
My imagination peeks to protect
and avoid melting at inopportune moments
of love. This is how blood travels
to the farthest corners of my tested sweetness,
inhabiting the limits of your lusts full of mysteries.
I escape your burning witchcraft with hands
ready to rescue old tenderness.
The swift banks of my memory
suppress drunken details. I hear
a dissertation embedded in the vases
of death, the abyss that rubs
my shortcomings on your chest
curls up and breaks the windows
of your beach. Draws snakes
with fangs that steal my hours of rest
and then stretches out on your seashore
and wallows in your love spell
like cushioned silence of parsley.