The weight of the eyes
At night between sheets static
And the ticking of an old clock
Results in grams of silences
Dried in minutes.
One, two, fifty-seven.
Then return to the languid noise of the senses
A call to have the lips which make tremble the time
And expectations
It spins in the air paintings
Poor washed-out colors
At the corner of the dark
Without the moon to cut the atmosphere,
The woman who waited on measuring the semblance of men.
But now I am going to sleep again,
I do not remember because I was so tired.

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