De vidro

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Mãos inquietas as que te cobiçavam. De ventania, impuras por não saberem para onde ir, indecisas. Mãos do sul e parte de um norte estanque. Mãos róseas, inventadas, por uma distração que não me apetecia. Eram mãos que aportavam nos teus submundos e em tuas estalactites. Mãos que eu não queria dizer, e que de sôfrego desfilavam uma parte de lábio, uma parte de recanto, uma casa no campo. Um vidro que mordo na neve, nos deslizar de gelo. Um cheiro de cidade, quando a porta se abre vento. Me alcançava(s) em desolação. Um monólogo de mãos antipáticas, ásperas, estradas de incerteza. Voluntariosas, quiçá apáticas, desprovidas de ritmo. Manchadas de sangue e vidro. Rosas, abrigo de figos.

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