Humidity does not stop raining.

Hours go by and I still have that feeling under my skin, hopelessly staying in a state of voluntary excitement, almost floating.

Humidity does not stop raining.

It is as constant as the copious snow of the north, that has decided to coincide with you; together they dance to the beat of these carnal emotions, which little by little take shape to become a stabbing passion.

Humidity does not stop raining.

You drill not only my head; your stay has been so intense, that it has forged a crack that runs through my chest,

humidity does not stop raining,

following the path in the middle of my navel to stay there, where humidity does not stop raining,

humidity does not stop raining,

but inevitably thinks at times in a female climb, questioning, overwhelming my feelings, and asked again and again: who is it? 

I understand from my perspective that women with a high sense of passion, should not be seen with fear, but I also feel that being strangers paves a ground of distrust.

I follow my instinct, are you still following yours?

Has humidity stopped raining in you?

Humidity does not stop raining, my crotch is always damp, and as I write this, my heartbeats are posing where they feel like,

humidity does not stop raining, my desire is almost immersed in my closed eyes over your eyes, imagining that they are deep and sad, I wish you were here.

Humidity does not stop raining,

and the ambiguity that surrounds us forms a tsunami, and despite the cold, I am sweating,

Humidity does not stop raining; I fear it will not escape until your voice and your senses physically focus on the smells that flow from my humanity when you are here.

Humidity does not stop raining, and you still have not told me at what time you read my poems. Is it early when you hear the singing of the roosters? Or maybe a quarter less than yesterday? Goodbye stranger…