derrames da primavera em que me deixaste

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assim que o sol se pôs, se foi também o nosso sol por trás das colinas que nos esperam - ou esperavam - cansadas de encostarem a vales sem apoio. e, com o desencosto delas, fomos nós também, nesse determinante tão estranho no que toca a duas pessoas tão separadas: nós... parece uma memória irreal, há muito sonhada e esquecida, esse dia de uma primavera cansada em que me sorrias de lábios rasgados de beijos, com uma doçura em ti irreconhecível, enquanto me desenhavas flores de lótus nas minhas costas nuas, dizendo-me - naquela tua cama virada para o por do sol apagado - que simbolizava a pureza do meu ser, esse ser que tu amavas sempre, incondicionalmente. 

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