Vives en ese espacio detrás de mis ojos, en donde se queda la belleza, los miedos y los sueños. En donde no tienes que mirar para mirar porque puedes sentir tu luz sin que haya un sólo rayo de sol. Vives detrás de mi nariz también, justo debajo. Despertando los más dulces recuerdos atrapados en tu aroma, reviviendo instantes que sólo se alimentan con tu ser. Vives detrás de mis labios, callando lo que de ti quiero decir y gritando todo lo que te quiero besar. Vives en cada grieta que con el frío recuerda tu piel, vives en cada latido que necesita tu voz...
My mind is blocked when I'm writing a word on you. There's no reason, no bad feeling, no pain, but I know the appropriation is mine. Your memories are mine; I don't want even share them with my writing. The memories of you are apart from the world; they are far away. They don't live in the fire, and the passion of handwriting but they live there, enough, permanent. I know, however, you're made of all of the elements. The fire lives on you but is calm and shiny, comforting, balanced. I've been heating by those flames so many times that I got used to getting burned. I'm used to your water also. Patient and infinite, wise and eternal. Full of life but wild and destructive. I've been drinking for a long time but I'm always thirsty. I've also seen the passion, and the wild wind, but I'd better like to remember the soft touch of your hands in my hands. You are the elements together, and the perfection of someone I've renounced and I'm not ...
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