Five fingers. This hand
Pleasure, Sorrow, Literature, Love, Marriage.
Pleasure
The balcony opened, heat enters and night. Stop me. Kiss me very slowly, without enthusiasm, with wet lips. I sincerely good, finally! I arrived three hours ago. Like putting a greeting important. You undress. Lift my shirt. Looking for skin. Bellies, smooth. I bare. Night and sweat everywhere. Extension of these sandals without help me with my hands. I get off at the heels. I'm not high. Suddenly I'm young and I love you from the bottom. The whole body available. And a whole night of which will not waste anything.
Displeasure
I always do the same lap. At the same time. The time when the sky is more light, but it's still black. From the road you see the balcony, square, great. From the balcony you can imagine the room. Square, great. The curtain closed and the shutters broken wind and rain and sun and even wind. Greens should be. Fall apart. I will stop there, in midair. A swallow rain. Between the gutter and the sidewalk, between the present and past times, including at least since this past cold winter starts and a future threat, as much as the memories. What a cast. The sky throws water. The water washes the face, eyes, plaster exudes porous mold.
Besides the tent, silence. Bulbs yellow glue, opaque glass, a television dumb black, the radiator cold, dusty, and smooth, with a cherished hand button, insistent and trembling even had breasts that you must feed the empty fridge, bread crumbs between your fingers as abused a rosary beads, thrown in my throat like a fucking enemy, threw down all around, until the last drop of loneliness and anger, the Bible, prayer, softly, quietly, SCCC ..., and thoughts, screaming , banging on every corner, from the ceiling to the ground under the feet, nails, even in the cracks of the wall, the phone off the hook by mistake or who knows, and a whole world out naked, helpless, beaten path, like a fetus in the dumpster.
Letters
It is important that you write to me. Every now and get that sexy and skinny little book, red red, and rough ... what I have made known to you. Open it at random. There. Will fit any page. I dedicate yourself.
Love
When I come to check the wound, that perfect cut, the edges clean clean, the blood is red, black, full iron, your blood. Very good. But it does not come out right away. Comes after, covering everything that you do not see anything. And I feel a kind of thrill in the mouth, then down, between the esophagus and the heart, engages ribs, and it is not pain, is flesh of flesh.
When you were born and I said ... Hey, but you're here!
Every time I hear the word Mom, turning to me. Word which I I do not get used.
Marriage
Who knows, then, if your state is a perfect marriage. It's easy to throw away a marriage, or to raise a monument. But who knows. I, for example, my marriage did not throw it into the pit. I had a hat handmade by my mother, my wedding day. My legs were greasy cream flavored with almond. And a cord of knotted sott'al blue satin dress, because it brings luck. I had rice in the belly, between the buttocks, under the teeth. I am due to strip to allow them to fall, those beans ... tick tick tick, all fall down! It was an afternoon of autumn, but spring seemed, was a secular party but was pleased also to the priests, was serious but we did it for fun.
salt between my fingers, that at Christmas increasingly scarce 
