.Yo tengo un sillón de Marruecas que extraña tu espalda,
Un falso Picasso que cobra el retrato en que estabas,
Catorce adoquines que exigen tus huellas descalzas,
Yo vivo del aire que expulsa el olor de tu blusa.
Yo tengo temor a perderte, y terror a que vuelvas,
No pue.
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