Months are passing and my hands are implanted among the leaves over and over; rests of the entrails of the fallen out of favour trees, every time that I try to quench this ravenous hunger of want to express my beats, day after day, on your white body.

Agony, of living the longing of trying to metabolise me among the cells of your being, with the ink that flow of among my hung-up feelings, every time that my desire is disrupted with your strange walking, steps that overflow the rivers that circulate me the soul.

You. That with your short skirt exasperate my reason extending me the metastasis of my neurotic and gullible heart.


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