Manuel has round eyes like two moons. And occasionally, I try to see me on the sidewalk where the sun can not blind him. Manuel gives me the sunsets are not too many, and distills my words across the river to avoid hurt. Manuel plays with his hands drawing circles in solitude defined and unchanging eternity. These solitudes that you stick to your cheek against the pillow when we wake up every morning. These solitudes that you run in the wash the toenails and braid your navel with copper wires. Are the wilds of Manuel, and mine. Manuel is the life and mine. Because Manuel has his eyes round as moons, and the corners and two tiny seeds of figs, where we can leave alone at the rack every time you smile between wine and silences. Manuel and I walked loneliness embracing the halls of the house, those who overlook the garden where we play to be free and we drew some daisies. The corridors and the garden smells a bit in December and January. The vocals of Manuel also have scent and a bit in December and January, and I know nectar, to moist loneliness, the daisies in the garden. The vowels of his name undress me every morning at coffee time, and I wear foam every time my attempts to strip his loneliness.
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