Pillow
I lay on the pillow after reading about teaching for 18 continuous hours, and when I exhale, I saw your eyes. There, smiling.
The sorrow in your name I have left a tangle of hair yet to fix. I'm so, so masculine, I lost the order of things as they had planned for this week. I sought the help of several hands of friends and acquaintances this week has an academic sense and work, because artistic sense will not.
artistic sense will not until I can not smile right. Blessed sad accident. Means I can laugh when greeting, and sheath. Do not wish it on anyone live a sad accident, because lovebirds will always hurt in silence and confused. I have the pancreas saddened and I am pale from lack of sugar. No way back. It does not hurt, burn me.
I take a glass of water and I see you over my nose. I can not do anything with it. O yes, but I will not bother your time more, than it already uncomfortable with my silence. I'm growing a beard and I remember yours. That was never hidden. That which accompanies the voice. The one that comes with the friíto on a Tuesday in Caracas. Silence, and go for a week. Flores
want under my back, as a sheet opaque, cloudy and seductive. Flores know when I'm about to embrace sleep. Yes, those flowers you brought.
And so, a few minutes, I slept with my bottle, yes, the poems of Rimbaud.
The sorrow in your name I have left a tangle of hair yet to fix. I'm so, so masculine, I lost the order of things as they had planned for this week. I sought the help of several hands of friends and acquaintances this week has an academic sense and work, because artistic sense will not.
artistic sense will not until I can not smile right. Blessed sad accident. Means I can laugh when greeting, and sheath. Do not wish it on anyone live a sad accident, because lovebirds will always hurt in silence and confused. I have the pancreas saddened and I am pale from lack of sugar. No way back. It does not hurt, burn me.
I take a glass of water and I see you over my nose. I can not do anything with it. O yes, but I will not bother your time more, than it already uncomfortable with my silence. I'm growing a beard and I remember yours. That was never hidden. That which accompanies the voice. The one that comes with the friíto on a Tuesday in Caracas. Silence, and go for a week. Flores
want under my back, as a sheet opaque, cloudy and seductive. Flores know when I'm about to embrace sleep. Yes, those flowers you brought.
And so, a few minutes, I slept with my bottle, yes, the poems of Rimbaud.
Luis, the other neno
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