I sighed in your room before and after surrendering to the delicate perfume of your body; before I start thinking and resigning myself to I don’t know what. Sorry for the sadness. Condemned to an ungrateful present of not suffering what I have suffered, wanting to decide on your rights or breasts of love while I live dejected in a sea of doubts without shores.
For every kiss that I haggled you a thousand sweets you gave me without haste. And I have never been fond of masses, for not standing still or planted. Not even an altar boy had arrived. Sleeping the dream in your bed never seemed excessive to me, and I never gave up looking for your open lips. They say that there are kisses of those that then take away, I don’t know. And I kissed you slowly.
If when you want to cry you cry and the same if you want to love, but why when I want to love you I don’t love. Only you that I have loved. That my body and soul aches from loving you, if I carry you inside me. Put your forehead on my forehead and your hand in my hand, and if you want, make me the oaths that we will break tomorrow. And so we will cry until dawn.
I don’t know why I write to you, if I almost despair in this wait. I’m retracing my steps without seeing you or having you in this sunless sunset. Whoever hasn’t kissed a woman’s scraped knee is that he hasn’t loved, you told me, while I was on my knees kissing your knee in that open-air cafe.
Dear Constanza, who will listen to my confession: that I love you because I only love you, and from loving you to not loving you I have never arrived. I almost despair of waiting for you and without my heart I live in the fire. I love you only because I loved you without end and loving you I beg you my traveling love. Not seeing you and loving you consume me, without this February moon. That you have stolen peace from my heart. And as the poet said, “in this story only I die and I will die of love because I love you”.
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