by Jorge López Llorente

I always keep your hands close to my heart. The slender, pianist-like fingers, more skilled at caresses than manual labor. That golden ring that rusted long ago, but still shines. I always keep your hands close and always end up stroking them, whether in my memories or, even better, on my terrace, where I leave the flowerpots, where I have them planted, still, freshly cut. They start to smell and become gangrenous, but only a little; they take root, grow and bloom more than the poppies next to them. A beauty. Hope the seeds of blood germinate soon.