WHITE BLINDNESS

In the darkness
my hands are the fearful eyes of a wounded deer
walking through the thickness of the forest
licking the wounds
that your name
still produces
Uselessly, they look for a light,
feeling the lichens
making their way hardly
through the humid undergrowths of the memory

At the end…
always everything tastes like you

Always everything tastes,
insistently,
like you

G.F. Molinero

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