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Palabras de un domingo normal

El clásico prescribe lo siguiente:

“Debo dejar de fumarte, de beberte, de pensarte. Es posible. Siguiendo las prescripciones de la moral en turno. Me receto tiempo, abstinencia, soledad.”

Y he tenido tanta soledad que no queda más nada. Los remedios no sirven y las recetas tampoco. Aún respiro tu perfume en los millones de aromas que vienen a mi y cuando encuentro algo tan parecido, comienzo a hiperventilar emocionado porque te encontré cómo los viejos sabuesos cazaban. 

Aún te bebo en cada gota de frescura que llega a mi boca, te saboreo injustamente en los labios de alguien más y busco a lo largo de toda su piel algo que me recuerde a ti. Un punto en los manantiales ajenos que se te parezca. 

Dejar de pensarte es sencillamente imposible. He renombrado una sección de mis pensamientos con tu nombre y bajo él viven las cosas más lindas y más extrañas y más perversas a la vez. Y todo se queda ahí. Y todo sale a pasear de vez en cuando. 

Y sigo aquí hasta el cuello de soledad. Y sigo aquí al borde del siguiente abismo. 

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