In the twilight of your silence,
the ego.
Half-told secrets, lies that taste like kisses.
Truths in other people's skin, wounding scars.
Time is measured in the naive illusion of palpitation; zero minutes with a thousand roses under your fingers.
In the twilight of your absences,
blood in the corners of every hour you keep silent.
A geminiana-cholita-cholita-ñoña-kawaii who is just beginning to understand that time is a concept, and I, an idea.