One way to call destination is to judge the chances that our look is a compendium of attention that someone dreamed, outlined in the painted metal of today. A moment in which the words are looks and looks, desire for intimacy, frustrated, clearly, for the unbinding that is drawn, not between our bodies, not between our thoughts, Siamese vocation, but between our need to love, without substance or form, and the narrow box that I can hardly vislumbrarte under a smile, a smile insecure, which may be yours by definition, out of necessity. And so, when through your fingers slips a smile on my face, I judge to be necessary to look away and guess yours on me, as if in my absence could see that my eyes are like prisms that distort, to reinvent arbitrarily that approving my particular bureaucratic way of loving. It is then, in verse uncoordinated, assonance and decency of our gaze, I sense sometimes when I smell gas, smell squeaky red roses in a nursery wilted.
