We had plenty of venom. Burning inside us. The heart was a cat in heat. The words were left clinging to the bedding. Had died in a hotel anyone with steel blue carpet, with the tap suffering from lichens of lime, with a sea view charred by the sun, you about to fall asleep and I prowl, you in darkness and I for passes, you and me on the edge one second after having bottomed out, full of glory, of poems with telephones and closed circuit television, and old dreams, and smiles evenings, and airports.
Then we made love, we and we ran to the balcony. It was cold and we Tapabar with a blanket. There was not a cloud in the sky. The stars, instead of collapsing, we are absolved, and far off a freighter crossing from side to side horizon. And I told you that You should have grabbed around the waist that day, the sun blinding his back, and then I was about to go crazy, and every kiss you gave me then I weighed as a believer sin mortal, as a conviction, as if there were a chance to shine, and you and you said something giraste ear.
broken lives cross, suitcases, downtown apartments, noise, money orders, gazebos windy, CDs, cheekbones, books clubs, twists, fights in the kitchen, twisted plans. It's so hard to shine.
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