XXII

In more than thirteen nights
I have spent thirteen dreams with you.
I would know how to tell you...

In your marijuana-colored eyes,
you guard a slow proposition of bliss,
a boat that recedes without showing us its back.

You undress daily
in a way that will never become one of my poems,
your syllables become enemies of time,
with unfolded gestures you unfold our clothes
and a strange arrogance takes over me,
suddenly becoming its custom.

And I, who do not confess to owing you all I have
because one inherits verse like nostalgia,
I do not dare to tell you
the sensation of hearing your closeness,
the surrender you give me with the heat of your skin,
my indispensable feelings.