Love is a puff of ...

I always said that love was nothing more than a puff of tactile, incongruous and necessary to cope with a life that I never live sensations.

Now, after those days that alone was without uttering a word, you showed up.

Without further ado, giving shared space with a stare to not know where and lips that rarely, smiling.

Today, I've met the other side of your skin, I have to tell you, thank you, that, despite the shared distance, it was nothing if one enjoyed those cravings that hand in hand, look at look.

And the days those, remember ?, when the music was ours and tried to Mozart and Beethoven, to the syrup stick, the tacubos Venegas not forgetting Diego Torres (who annoyance), and some Arjona, as we walked countless black and white landscapes, and walked through picturesque galleries. 
This is just a hint of words inspired by yours, a hint of Sighs and hubbub.

And yes, we were together in that room walls tore through our senses, there conjugating back and pains, desires, passions, always together, united in the same beating, oblivious to any reality, contemplating life that both knew that it was fleeting.

At least imagine death, we were a thousand and again in hell, never touch the sky, we loved the darkness and witches, owls, chirping birds, all so rambunctious, love freedom and we get carried away by flares, we never wanted the heavenly.

You know ?, I even think I left my skin on yours, I forgot that morning in which alone, we converted the clouds in flashes of dreams, resignations and consolations.

You're so much and was much what we hold in our hands, it would be impossible to die without take in my eyes, the reason impossible to tip over into oblivion.

Not fear death and neither, hold me, I always do.

We played the game most wonderful chance, now, to see who dies first? we know that's what we expect, both together and set out to find, there, where there will be hospitals and tears, where morphine is not known and the serum combined with injections does not exist.

Finally meet after all, and nothing, dead, we will wander at 6 pm, remember wisely is the witching hour.

We will join them and dance naked in our hell, we will kiss our desire enclosed in the letters, and drink the elixir of gratitude.

Everything I have here, you know, my life and dream, my anguish, my fear, only I can tell you that if I die first you take, and if you die before, leave the window open, a lit candle, and a paper where I wrote some poetry, many, few, too many for you.

You find me, you take me, and vice versa.