Broken Colors

On your body I cultivated broken colors, in the spaces and in the folds, the caresses were poets and the bites in the last dawn without thirst. On my body remained the traces of pale shadows, still and discreet, new darknesses with loose boundaries, the last absences with reason. The longing to see you was translated into past tense, before the vestige of having you, my arms stopped suffering in the dawns of involuntary descent and my eyes did not justify their eloquence when your virtue did not justify them open. Meanwhile, names of things without motive chase me every night, names of kisses ungiven, reliefs of old embraces; before sleep I always remember your whims. At last I have learned that in the past, patience sleeps and must be left to grow in silence, until, alone, it fades into conscience. Our story ends without applause, there is no curtain nor cheering, we were a gust in the sky's time and a slight nuisance in the life of silence.