MOSS

Inside the moss of your eyes, in your glance and everywhere, my certainty falters.

I will give you what you do not know about me, to bite on the breast, bruised with blows inflicted by the mind, which an unbearable morality has armed with disquiet. 

Seeking a synthesis of those lost days, those hours and moments lost in your religion, I touch your belly, your hands, and everything of you that is fecund.

Without leaving a piece of your soul, between sheets and silken straps, I overflow, while tireless, I kiss your credo while your small breasts perfect the mirage. 

But the scanty clothes in which the body flails are little dreams clad in nothing, and I see you appear and disappear while you leave arm in arm with the night.                        And while every plan lives and then dies, I am reborn, and then drown, astonished in the usual remorse.