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What can I tell you
that my eyes don't tell you
that scatter embers of desire
on the contours of your skin?
In their light I lose myself,
My hands, daring
run along its paths,
silently draw
the secrets of the moment,
explore every curve,
every hidden heartbeat,
and in their touch I find
the song of a dream.
What can I tell you
that I don't feel her skin?
If every touch is a poem,
a lit verse
that awakens stars
in the infinite night
where time stands still
and the world dissolves.
What can I tell her
That I do not breathe your essence,
that my verses do not yearn for
the flames of her existence?
I can only be silent,
look, and let myself be carried away,
for in the fire of her being
all words are already superfluous.