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Las camas vuelan al sur en invierno.

No te vayas todavía, que aún no ha amanecido.
Sumérgete en mi cama, finje que duermes, y vuelve, antes de que me despierte.
Vuelve, a la noche en la que dos miradas nos cruzaron la cara y nos dictarion sentencia.
Vuelve, donde quieras, pero vuela.
Sigue quejándote de que aquí no brilla más el sol, y deja que te dé la razón, solo para disfrutar de un cálido silencio.
Y vuelve a levantar la voz a distancia, ahora que ya no nos entiende nadie.
Finje que te impresionan, mis posturas de billar, mis tres acordes malsonantes y mi cocina experimental.
Vuelve a soplar toda las farolas para escondernos de la realidad.
Y enredémonos en las cortinas de cuadros cuando el pasillo encienda su silencio.
Miente de como yo valía cualquier viaje vuelto en idas,
y dí que nos quisimos, hasta los domingos por la mañana.



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