the story between your fingers
was told at night, in a quiet room
with sighs and whispers.
when can you say it? when will your tongue unleash?
words are distracting i know.
but there's something i haven't told you
my problems are called you
that's why i seem indifferent just to feel a little more secure.
i have no idea how it happen
and it seems to me a little dangerous to tell you about the sweeteness
it surpasses the logic in my head.
all i know is that am here.
against wind and currents i move.
what else can i do? when the heart knows, who can tell it NO?
So tell, tell me the story
the one your fingers have told my face
the one your eyes have told my eyes
the one i alleady know.
by fabiola alejandra labra.