In my den, I’m digging among the dreams you leave they half done, chips that graze my soul. It’s rain. Wet sidewalk blur the letters than I left on your body. Tides that flood the eyes, insatiable purgatory that penetrate us in every one of your glassy looks.
Alcohol looks for this lie, wich calls us among every one of the bitter verses that you didn’t give me, your promises are in the air, snorting in every one of my long wakefulness.
Death. The wants of drink your mouth to verses and run among the banks of your entrails while I’m spilling the last drop of ink inside you are insatiable. Words that have been plotted near the sickly abdomen wich hammers every second of my thinkings.