Ramo Buchón

Love here is like a macho man in a leather jacket: loud, generous, and with a slight smell of gasoline. The flowers are not from the supermarket, but a whole ramo buchón, so that the neighbors know who the king of romance is. The words are simple, but there is a strange warmth in them: they seem to be about Dior, Cheyenne, and PlayStation, but between the lines, they are about the desire to be needed, even with the shadow of the past and a somewhat questionable reputation. There is no subtlety in this courtship, but there is honesty - the kind where “don't be afraid, I'm here” sounds louder than any serenade. And perhaps this is where true tenderness lies - under the hood of a pickup truck and the sound of brass instruments in the night.