Could it be that our blood boils
at the exact same hour?
That two ignited souls
do not fit in the same room?
Could it be that you're not my rib
and that's why you don't hurt me?
Could it be that we don't live life
the way we are supposed to?
And that's why I love you,
three or four times I
I love you
And you come
with a cosmos in the forehead,
with your dead ones on the back,
and between the legs
you wear
the most beautiful sunset
In one fist, stormy days,
in the other, balmy days,
In one, tears of chamomile
on the other, sweat and mint,
but in your saliva, sangria.
Sangria to maintain the blood cool.
Could it be that we are dust violated
by the slightest provocation?
Between lip and lip,
between nipple and nipple -
- I love you.
Four or five times I,
I love you.