Almost Biblically 7a. You are that broken body in the twilight which smells of fire because it was never tamed. You are the air which blew through defeated words and transformed into the wheat we gathered for our tomorrow bread. You are the appeal of the coming kiss which invokes the recollection of what is gone with the eyes of the dog that salvaged your touch through his gaze. You are the cliff temptation and the temptation of the inexhaustible garden, full of apple trees and unfathomable threads of poetry. You are the electricity of a Hispanic August at the dusk next to the river as you through a red jacket on your shoulders. You are a city when it drizzles on its syllables: my very own Song of Songs. 7b. Because there exists an empty room where your luminous hands light up my nights. Because there exists a bed with an Indian tent at its centre to hide us from everyone without clothes or memory; because there at the end of the bed a dog and a giraff...