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Tenía

Tenía la costumbre de quererla. De acariciarla despacito. De sentir como su piel se transformaba. Tenía la costumbre de  sentirla, de saber que ella estaba ahí, de confiar en que siempre sucedería lo bueno. Tenía la costumbre de besarla, en los labios, en el cuello, de furtivo, escondidos, para nosotros. Tenía la costumbre de acariciarla, de memorizar sus formas, de sentir cada uno de los pliegues y los valles, de verla sufrir mientras me acercaba más. Tenía la costumbre de hablarle del mundo, de la luna, de lo bueno y de lo malo. Tenía la costumbre de retarla, de buscar la forma de distinta, de encontrar el ángulo divertido. Me moría sobre todo por escucharla...

Ahora no quiero acostumbrarme. Me irrita su voz, me lastima su prisa. Me parece tan innecesario vivir en un chiste, de desperdiciar la vida en tonterías. Me aterra volver a sentirla, me siento perseguido por la idea de que ella vive ahí, de que no traiga nada bueno. El mundo, la luna y la vida parecen tan alejadas, tan temerosas. No quiero más acariciarla. Me queman las sensaciones de su piel, me irrita saber que no era perfecta.

No obstante, con todo lo que tengo y no tenía... aún muero por besarla


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