He drew an empty heart,
on the fogged glass,
in it he wrote his
name,
and so many dots,
absent from
initials,
up to the limit of
your breath.
Too much rain on the
outside,
too many silences
inside,
a great
incorruptible clock,
counting the hours
by two,
by the light of old
chandeliers,
drowned,
in the wax of his
indifference.
Luisa unbuttoned one
by one,
the buttons of her
dress embroidered,
letting it fall
slowly,
like her tears on
her cheeks,
always smooth,
always waiting,
the carelessness of
some stranger,
that with the same
rain
a rebellious kiss
let escape.
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