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The guilt that unveils my sleep
comes in 44s.
You are no longer the space
I considered mine alone, before
it was corrupted by other breaths.
I sense the lips, I offer the cheeks,
reveal the air we liked to gossip
about, and tremble the hand you opened the door with.
Myself to me, and I only.

Yes. Married with no children,
bachelor with no intentions whatsoever,
found a map with still waters underneath.
Funny how I never wanted to become
your personal architectural instructor.
Tie me to your tongue, be a pencil.

Montserrat Aloy i Roca
26 February 1998

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