For Lord Flaca
The frosty light sketches, against the sun, my body on the yellow wall.
There are nostalgic voices that the cat eats from the window. Voices.
Only whispered voices beneath the fan.
Suddenly, time's logic dies and we draw the curtain to avoid the
You smell like everything I want, you say Then the muchacha de ojos
hiding under my nails comes back to me.
There's no winning against the incapacity of distance, no
exceptions. Since I found you every night is blue.