Small moments of those September nights,
We were talking about nothing you sitting on the grass and I lying in the middle of your belly.
Little those jumping crickets that came in vigil with their songs, jumped clinging to your jeans with zeal and with envy of all your charms.
Small the pines those that served as a hiding place and sometimes as a shelter while we gathered secrets and loose phrases drowned in our ears.
Small the paths that ran with impetus my fingers,
they took over your clothes and, after a first kiss:
They came and went as they pleased and carefully.
Small the remnants of your body that were left without caresses.
Small dreams that we exhausted quickly.
Small the promises that we swore with laughter
Small that mole on your lips (peeking out like a crow) made my shy shy kisses hummingbirds and in each petal of your body they rested relentlessly beyond your pens.
Your breasts were also small,
so small (remember)
that almost fit in my mouth ...
So it was, everything ours was small.
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