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I have a confession to make,
yes, to you, don't look at me like that
you drive me crazy, my life;
you take the air out of my chest
when you sit in my eyes,
when without saying anything you undress me,
without touching me, without touching me,
you make me yours.
I have to be honest with you,
with myself,
the seagulls flew and their letters germinate,
pretty flowers bloom, they grow shy,
the sun opens them, the moon looks at them,
the letters hide
ashamed of the attention received.
I have to tell you looking at the stars
from my sleeping room,
the sheets write your presence,
their rhymes caress me,
they kiss my body with the petals of their agony,
of feeling very close to you,
to be yours in the eagerness of my madness.
And you tell me from the gray facade
of the dementia that strangles you:
-Don't look at me with those flames for pupils,
don't look at me, my good that you provoke
the tsunami of my tides,
the uncontainable fever of my heat;
do not look at me, my heaven
that you turn my desire and lust into salt-
I have a confession to make,
Yes, to you, sweet child of my soul!
