I love everything you touch,
Everything becomes a souvenir.
Fairy hands, miraculous hands,
What you touch
You can't buy it for ten thousand.
I love the transparent air near your forehead
And I love it blue too.
And I love it blue...
I love what you write:
Your handwriting on paper.
Whether in ink, pencil or crayons,
Your lines
They are my Rembrandts, my Dalí!
Crinkled pieces of paper, market lists,
And if they talk about love, better.
And if they talk about love...
I love your pillow, your books,
And the mirror in which you see yourself.
The clothes that know your figure,
The thickness
Of your hair on me.
I love the ground you walk on, your street, your corner,
And what was born from you.
And what was born...
I love that you have rescued
My heart, when I
I hadn't even guessed
That I was lost,
That I was sleeping in a corner.
>On the route of days,
The sunken passion
Only refloated for you.
Only for you...

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