Spread the News
And I swore that you had already written me something similar, of this magnitude, that never became more than a page of draft, trapped in the glottis of your cry, in the throat of the kiss that remained framed in that poem, in which I was still the past time of the dream and the present that you unwrapped and, in that time, it was always Christmas, it was always a whole new year and every day I celebrated your permanent existence in me. Today also and still. I just can't touch you. That you are impossible for me to reach, that you have become a star that blazes, among constellations and asteroids. The fireworks (sacrifice for the animals) keep crackling in the sky, in the darkness that screams the blackness of your absence. But, my love, you are inside, and it is inside that you remain, sheltered from the vultures searching for carrion and blood; the vampires Zeca sang about do not come near you, ever since I have lovingly kept you for life. You have become so deeply within me th...
