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I made you a bow of balloons.

Puncturing a balloon does not assure you that it will explode,
that loses the air,
that deflates.
Maybe you bleed a little,
drip a few times and slowly bleed.

Bust a piece of wood and splinter all your fingers,
the whole hand: irritable.
Hit a glass and cracking your hands and not the glass.

Inflate colorful bubbles,
paint the sky blue iris;
wet some warm water
the opening you have from east to west;
in the back.

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Sink your face in salt water,
swim for a while with alligators and drool;
deepen your chest
and inadvertently drowning the sick man in a bed.

Go to the sea,
swallow the sand,
try stars;
catch snakes that smile when you take them out of the water.

Caress your hair,
kiss you fast one last time;
you say goodbye with the promise to return;
but I already broke so many times, I do not want to rain again.

I have tense muscles,
forgetting is an active work task
and remember a delirium.
Each memory is a nail;
how you get a nail with another nail if the two are buried in the skin.

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Pinching a heart is like clicking a balloon:
One dies of love and the other knowing that it is fragile,
he lets himself fall into anyone's arms;
the heart swells, the balloon deflates.

The air is missing both;
one turns purple,
post-mortem

Another darkens
or maybe I accidentally confused the order.

The two throw themselves into the sky:
One falls slowly, perhaps it flies away;
the other if it does not fall into the right arms
it becomes tiny, opaque rubies.

The ink wine of beautiful colors;
a dark red
That smears the left side of my shirt.

Source

You go.
He had made a bow of balloons for you to enter.
Now everyone explodes
with every step you take;

going away.

Poetry.

Written by Manuel V. Martínez R.

I invite you to continue reading much more of my work, right here; in my Steemit blog. An open space for art, literature, poetry and critical opinion.

If you got here, let me know that you have seen my verses. A hug!