After Pablo Neruda, LXXXIX, 100 Love Sonnets When I die, close my eyelids with your hands. Touch me with the thermal dryness of your
Jessica, my postal worker, it is a snowy night in December and you are knocking on my front door with a package asking if
I am always the beautiful one. When I was seventeen, I learned how to walk, fix my face, and wear my hair the ways