Parloteo

what’s the color of love?
it depends on the way we
hold hands in our mind

we are lost but the arks
of our passion aren’t really
meant to be explicitly shown
when you talk to my hand

when I talk to my hand
in a moment of pain
I desire that our lips
don’t touch each other
in vain

notwithstanding the fact
that your life was not mine
I captured your love in
an instance of creativity

apparently we overlooked
our reactions but nothing
went so far as to break
the never ending appetite
of our instincts

I am a phantom but not
your lover in a moment
of absolute silence and
solitude we stood alone
and reacted, motionless
talking about future
and life

no matter what you say,
no matter what you do
the facts show

I ask you not madly nor
wrongly but innocuously
that cruelty is not our
love making atmosphere

captivity not life
is bothering our soul
in the right way
it appears to be
that my father,
a Peronist, didn’t share
the same rules of behavior
as my utmost resilient grave

if I enter the room
and talk to the ground
I grasp this moment of light
and eat it with pleasure and joy,
as if you, my love,
were my ultimate toy