I intend to write,
to let you know what I feel for you.
I can feel the wind in my hair,
cold room, cold words,
but never get me out of
this warm spell in which
I plunged for a long time.
I always tell you how much I think,
you have to be aware of how much is
at this point.
But rarely, not to bother,
I did not say how.
Today,
another 23 under the moon,
I want to talk to you my dear,
how I think when the night is cold.
Sometimes
I look at my hands, caress,
and think.
I think yours, fully.
No detail yours arrives to forget.
The most beautiful of all this,
I can tell you,
I can see you
no matter if my eyes are closed.
I do not imagine,
I remember.
And that relieves me.
I think that mole between your fingers,
and put my own hand to my lips,
holding,
sometimes trembling,
others, very safe.
I bury my lips in the exact place where
I can still cherish him back
without difficulty,
every touch will be worth it.
I can feel my lips move
and smile.
I smile because
you have made me do it,
I smile because
I know that someday
cease to think it's my hand,
and I just have to
open my eyes
to see you.
Other times,
I observe,
and I detail all,
I would be able to wait
and sustain, because
why dream when I have you in front of me?
I can notice how your lips also rise,
and how I wish to pose mines
at that point where it ends.
I can see your eyes,
heaven will never be off,
sea as clear as your speculation,
Anyone would think is love.
I admit,
it is admiration.
Maybe I will not be the only,
and close as my heart demands,
but yes I can feel it.
It's pride,
it's confidence.
I can just see it in you.
Admiration, that grows and does not stop.
Perhaps for this reason,
I can see the full moon,
and whisper how much
I want your happiness.
With me,
without me,
you,
with all that can make you feel calm.
As if she could hear me,
or somehow innocently,
let you know
when you see it.
Because she sees you,
when you have the chance.
I always love to write,
though, your gift is greater than mine,
because you write as you think,
imagine,
and everything you keep in you,
is full of history
that deserves to be told,
I want to tell you that I love writing
even more when is about you.
From the darkness
in a room alone,
full of warmth for the love
under a blanket,
and cold of your absence,
I admire you.
I think, and I write.
Until just say everything.
Between poems and songs,
why not let you know,
without fear
or shame,
how I love you.
