La Hora Del Timbre

I've spent the day preparing my heart for when the doorbell rings. However, since nine fifty-three, it hits my ribs demanding your presence immediately. At the bell's hour through the peephole, candies peek out of a cleavage and a big smile surrounded by a woman with a minty smell, foreshadowing glory in cinemascope. My ears and my nose will go out to meet them, along with my eager eyes and my pampered heart and my determined left hand ready to explore the buttonholes and buttons of your dress. At the bell's hour, with caresses and coffee, everyday wounds heal in the dark room of lover's love where a stove barely illuminates one bed leg.
Then, with clean kisses safe in the little Eden, we'll wear out our lips in a fierce body-to-body. Fear and loneliness will flee into exile, and death will lose two to zero. At the bell's hour, the clock's bells, announcing joyfully your presence, repeat persistently that the countdown has begun and that little by little, I should prepare my heart for your absence.