Is It Okay Douche While You Have Herpes

CELESTE AND PARK

... when you see your eyes,

that I have tattooed on mine.

A. Pizarnik

When exiting the car,

life seemed a pair of socks

open oranges

on behalf of my hands.

And to think that later rose

- with my doubts-to seven inches of soil,

Like the heart,

to dream higher.

In the park gate, under the blue solar

imitating daylight in your eyes

a false jewel, or something.

The world around was no big deal.

For a moment I was so sure

that nothing on earth smelled

like you.

happiness was a miracle in your skin. Air

brought a flower stolen from your domain, green

green heels decorated the floor.

The powder saved kindly

laureate your shirt pocket.

saw nothing dirtier than that lily

spotted eclipsing the sweet geography

the shortest nipple and more poignant.

And my face looked suddenly your mouth.

"May I have a light?" He said

your mouth with lipstick decorated,

tuteando your lips my ears

in front of the park, and I

lit the flame of silence, and did not tell you:

" You're all I want. "

And I said:

"Only in your lips

fit all my kisses.

Nude're just like a square in Rome.

If you let me show you

not only know how to speak, that everything is a miracle,

because the miracle is not to dispose

as a sugar cube in your mouth. "

I would have given the fire from the gods.

And I ran out of air as a

knot tie wrapped around my neck,

registering my hands in his jacket,

broken into the pockets of value.

Dibujándote a head no,

I could not say anything ... And I said:

"Two black cats jump into my eyes from

the roof in the heat of your own. "

And I gave thanks likewise.

you away from me, beautifully,

your steps color of hope.

I lit the cigarette a passerby.

Your smoky eyes,

eyes of low clouds,

taught me that happiness

encloses an open pit.

With book in hand

and smiling,

Celeste,

on the park bench ... And I said:

"Dressed you Like a street in Athens,

where the air is the soft blue awnings,

like saying your name in voice low ...

Red music comes to me,

music in the mouth of the kiss that you have been

and kiss you in the mouth you,

which is my own mirage

and maybe you. "

And I said," Honey, my heart is sad

my soul, a spirit that does not allow the brush. "

In park bench since

happens, tattered, time

as is a poem.

_________________¿ what else I can say?

and trembling I feel

the sun when you take your clothes off so many night

as the day he took off one glove Gilda.

And there is, under a sky nipped in the bud,

this pain blue in the air of the park yet.