Sometimes I wonder if the texture of your skin will look more into silence or metaphors. If the lines that run through your back surround melt in your neck, or remain unchanged at the absurdity of the future we fear him so much. And I think if your mouth can name more mornings than later, or if you watch repeats only lukewarm ways of interpreting and living the corners of the house. If your hands haunt the memories or if your scarves keep the smell of winter (Forbidden) the past year. And I guess many times drawing circles and leaves the paper side of the phone. And the textures, and metaphors, and hands a thousand times and mornings between your skin and the absurdity of the clock ... between letters of rain in your name.
