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I heard old legends of eternal love, of luminous souls that do not go out in their own flame, but I, a pilgrim of dark inner hells, only fleetingly glimpsed the burning of that flame.
Valentine's Day is false merchandise, a mirage of promises written in the wind. So many ownerless mouths I loved, that I don't really know if I long for new loves or to return to that ardent portent.
I would give all that exists for a never-ending love, for a skin that when waking up with mine will be linked, for a man who will not be a fleeting casual refuge, but an eternal home where my verse dwells and remains in peace.
I want his essence to engrave my sheets like a tattoo, to teach me that there is more than transitory delight, that with the urgency of a shipwreck my soul embraces, that dawn is not a pretext for its early abandonment.
If destiny would have it for me, I would be her faithful heretic, her prayer and her sin in ardent and fervent adoration. Every night on her back my soul would write with a wooing of caresses never before rubricated by a poet in his song.
As I wander among ephemeral bodies and moles, clinging to desire and inspiring moan, if I was not granted to be loved, may they at least feel the passion that in my fiery breast has been conceived.