You used to identify the beating of my heart according to the phases of the moon.
The tonalities of my voice were symbolized by the heaviness of wheat in any given year.
We laid in the grass, shadows of poppies playing on our faces with the same rhythmicity of the waves on tranquil days.
At times we could feel the pulse of the new grains.
The line of my décolleté – as you used to say – nothing else but the demarcation between inexorable sins and the blushing tones of the sunsets.
The wind tasted like mulberries.
The Southern Pampas of Buenos Aires.
At the time it was one thing that I could not figure out.
What was the relationship between our love and numbers?
Were we one, were we two, were we three, or perhaps more?
How many were buried beneath our passion or by our passion?
Should we have…
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