The worst of love when it ends
are the rooms ventilated,
the pajama solo with mute,
adrenaline in separate beds.
The bad of the after are the spoils
that embalm the birds of the dream,
the mobiles that insult with the eyes,
the sistole without diastole or owner.
The atrocious thing is not wanting to know who you are,
past water, scorched earth,
that equal of waiting for you or that you wait for me,
Other than you among women,
that the account is paid
The love songs that you did not want
they are already rolling on the sidewalks,
the orchestras of the sad ones play them
Nobody dares to dance with anyone.
The suitcases that arrive without your clothes
they turn lost by the airports,
the passion when it happens is a coopa
of bled blood in the dead sea.
Patch the venial virtues,
condemn the archives to galleys,
when to the final point of the finals
two suspension points do not follow.
Worse is not knowing who you are,
past water, scorched earth,
that equal of waiting for you or that you wait for me,
Other than you among women,
that the account is paid
Only among all we can make this a better place :)