martes, 22 de noviembre de 2011

This heart tastes vinegary

I’m lying in bed and I feel your latency. Somehow, you carved your name in my core and you engraved your fingerprints in my hands. If I look up, all I see are your freckles like a solar stain in my pupils. Is like lucidity is slowly drifting away with the hours spent which now are discolorations or blisters in the room. I’m being bombarded with replicas, voices and emanations. There’s this grief-stricken look that I cannot get rid off and the sickness that my body carries is imperceptibly disgorging my soul out. And just when I think that I’m breaking through the twinge an ambrosial aroma bashes me until I hit rock bottom.