Monday, January 21, 2008

Would A Blonde Chunk Look Good In Red Hair

I miss your eyes light

Both are light, a reflection of each other, light between them, suspended in air that are not, in custody, still breathless sailing, but heat. Light and silence.

Twice a month, way ahead of that pile of garbage and stir among office paper and cartons, tissues stained with carmine or mustard to find the stack of numbered poems abandon there twice a month , before me, the words are confined to each other, the differences are common to expand with your waves of optimism, I met and it thrills me to discover that they have become shared feelings, perceptions of two crazy imaginative ... It is a lake of illusion, I in the sand, you in gentle waves to the shore kiss me every ten times I'll skin and coat with that smile of yours so that curve points upward-looking items you are looking for- ies on the drawn on my cheeks. (Eternal party you turn all the bulbs in our branches).

I discovered one day to alight the bus at the Cientocuatrobé and my leg flew up a handwritten sheet. I shook my foot to loosen and continued there hugging, looking from below as viewed from above a poem written on his leg: synchronized in an embrace blind. With all the light of their efforts, I took it and walked with it without looking at my fingers, crumpling it and she grabbed my hand to the trash heap of yellow street crossing, to throw. Still unaware that it was the blade that I lit the night and the road. There was a pile of messy papers, numbered seventeen. Recognize the format. Then I read that remained in my hand and took the others home. I got three in the morning, reading and rereading this storm of emotions. (Since then, the fireflies flit through my window drunk that bottle in your place)

Each night passes at the same time except when you stand your role and the middle of the street with arms outstretched on the cross. At this point, intersection of Orange Street and Cientocuatrobé, the garbage truck stops screeching tires. The driver grit your teeth, you curse and swear that next time you get hit no more ruthlessly ... But that happens every ten, twelve or fifteen days, there is no way of knowing when you will appear, there is no way to predict when you'll jump to the road to stop the work of landfills.

One of them is limited to jalearte, if you look-no-you-take away-from-there-you-going-to-get-two-hosts, "poor crazy, "he thinks." You stay there planted a couple of minutes and then you calmly.

is the right time I need to finish rummaging through the garbage in the corner, between the Yellow and Cientocuatrobé street. Because twice a month when I can leave work before time, public transport stops there before me were carried debris in the corner and pick up poems know someone who leaves the trash pile.

(.. . She does not know that, after depositing the poems, I go to the corner of Orange Street Cientocuatrobé and I hope you see your bus. When it's garbage truck before she did, I planted a jump in the middle of the road and I ride the stunt to the dump, which entertain and watch as she walks up the poems. Then he winked at the driver and I'm whistling something cheerful. The light of his face to the light I find my writings over the next two weeks to continue writing poems smiling light draws)


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