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Monday, March 12, 2018

The Mask: Elia Casillas



Without your hands I have seen the disguised laughter of the mirror,
I put on a mask,
I will not be with this face when I walk,
I do not want to see me,
the house is no longer your perfume,
here, where I saw how far a man like you comes,
so true, hot coal
and I love you where nobody misses you,
only me and this fist of words
and this penumbra
And what is your name tonight without your body?
Hot breath is unleashed
and it flutters: you go complicating what I am
and I enjoy imagining,
I shake in your blood storm,
the wine revives us
and I tremble in the nostalgia of the rain
and you save the vigils,
and no matter how late it is today,
what colors appear when we see the stars,
how corny, we saw the sky
and its blinking,
today I hear your words in each book
 you get to dust off,
raisins
and rubbing me
and I forget the texts because there are too many pieces
and we spend
and fantasize about the -now-
and I do not know where the volumes ended,
surprise, I have eyes
and I do not want to open them ever.
He reached to hear us,
we are today -just for today-
and freedom hinders
and I would gladly leave it in that center
where a part of me has gone mad,
 rugged reflector
 light my lips,
I set the specimens
and I throw myself to the wheel of the hours,
the hour throws me and I forget the manuals,
in days, the shelf will remain cold
and the thighs that learn to read you know it,
I do not sleep, your lips are a sharp blow in this insomnia,
insomnia, insomnia, the monster
that disputes the euphoria beneath my skirts.
In the bites I chase our voices
and I beg the moon
and I get saliva,
we live in the poison that leaves orphan nights,
and I'm the little table where you officiate,
as small as our dreams,
I applaud the edge of this immensity
and you are a ravine, I'm going to cross you,
I will jump in your heart against the world.
In the drizzle I write,
I write not to get lost,
I write because the desert brings these letters
and your words do the night
of the cushions,
I give in, your hands return to this pause
who is burying me,
there, your lucid fingers
and I will not write, -I say-,
and I come to you, to you, to you,
and I board those days with my story,
your white fingers complicate the narration,
and I'm uninhabited sun of my sex,
the present tires
and the there is not,
because absence is earthly,
like this silence
and I feel the body where this slow blood tends,
I discover my clumsy life
and lifting the feet is no longer customary,
overcome is more than impulse
and bravery, you're not here
and leaving the bed is a miracle.

  
Sunday 22 / June / 2014
Aguascalientes, Aguascalientes





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