LOVE

Only the voice, the skin and the scarfskin
of the silken things

Rein in. The music of the inner ear doesn’t want more than its cave
he will overstretch the hand and will not reach the sound
to touch beyond.

Amused, slided, caressing
and slowly admit the contour.
He retire filled up
without realize the vain hoot
from the captivity of the bowels
nor the rush of the blood calmness
that assault the lock of gush, not the joint
already forever blind of sob.

The one that leaves takes the memory,
the way of being river, of being air,
of being goodbye and never.

Till one day another halt it, rein in
and reduces to voice, to skin, to scarfskin
offered, delivered, while inside
the hidden loneliness waits and shiver.